25 SOIL

Editor Logan Flowers Business Manager Kayla DiSchiavo Team Nathalie Begin Amanda Gatto Maria Jose Dallas Mahaney Sara Mitrakovic Bilqees Salie Duncan Schildgen John Turner Faculty Advisors Professor Tadd Heidgerken Professor Noah Resnick Cover and interior art: Sarah Gautraud (https://sarahgautraud.wixsite.com/illustration) PRICE $20.00 USD University of Detroit Mercy School of Architecture 4001 W. McNichols Rd. Detroit, Michigan 48221 313.993.1523 Our digital archive can be found at: http://dichotomy.arch.udmercy.edu/

Printing: Hatteras, Inc., Dearborn, MI Copyright © 2020 by Dichotomy | University of Detroit Mercy All rights reserved. No part of this issue may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from Dichotomy.

mission Dichotomy, a student-published journal of the University of Detroit Mercy School of Architecture, strives to be the critical link to the discourse on design, architecture, urbanism, and community development. Like the institution, Dichotomy focuses on social justice and critical thought concerning intellectual, spiritual, ethical, and social development issues occurring in and outside of Detroit. Dichotomy aims to disseminate these relevant investigations conducted by students, faculty, and professionals.

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Logan Flowers: EDITOR'S NOTE

Andreas Körner: UNEARTHED CAVERNOUS STRATA

Andrea Alberto Dutto: THE LOGIC OF DEPTH

Ashley Ball: EARTH STRUCTURES OF A PORTUGUESE FARM

Brian Kelly: SOIL / SILO

Ceara O'Leary: SHARED, OFFSITE AND GREEN

Eric Wong: A NEW CAPITAL: A CASE FOR BRITAIN

Galen Pardee & William Jamieson: ACTUARIAL TERRITORY

AN INTERVIEW WITH JULIE BARGMANN OF D.I.R.T. STUDIO

126 136 144 150 158 186 200 214 226

Gautam Palav: NEO-AGRARIANISM

Dana Matouk: SOIL OF DESTINY

Georgia Klefti: THE LINE

Manuel Garza: FAMILIAR TERRITORIES – INVISIBLE INFRASTRUCTURES

Nwabisa Madyibi: ROOTS OR ROUTES

Sadie Imae: THEATER OF DUST

Tyler Gaeth: TERRA FIRMA

Zbignew Oksiuta: NEW SOIL

Dan Pitera: UDM SACD NEWS

editor's note Soil is the foundation of the Earth which we all inhabit. We grow from it, prosper from it, build upon it, pollute it, and dichotomize it. Soil is an organic material providing a sustainable base for life. Yet, polarized as degrading and dirty. How is it that soil can unite nations yet divide people? What power does it have in cultivating the built environment and defining its boundaries? This issue of Dichotomy considers soil as a response to the growth, prosperous, developable, polluted, and divided Earth that is the foundation of our built environment, as well as its relation to the discourse of architecture, urbanism, design, and the arts. The tradition of Dichotomy is to set a theme with a short synopsis, then letting each contributor have a free interpretation. This year’s issue, Dichotomy 25: SOIL, is comprised of a large variety of subjects and narratives—from unearthed caverns and artifacts, subterranean structures, soil reclaiming human intervention, and the United States’ Government missile silos, to personal accounts of soil displacement from wars in the middle east, Detroit’s stormwater infrastructure and post-industrial soil reconstruction, and soil’s relationship to the global pandemic, COVID-19. Each article in this year’s journal represents individual interpretations and opinions but collectively represents the larger picture of what soil was and continues to be. Denver-based artist, Sarah Gautraud, created the artwork for this issue by using the earth as pigmentation. The material choice embodies the transcendent properties of soil and the endless possibilities of what may arise. Sarah utilized Colorado’s unique and fertile pigmented soil to create vibrant red and deep brown watercolors for the cover and chapters in Dichotomy 25.

Your Editor,

Logan Flowers

008 010 012 014 016 018 020 022 024 Andreas Körner

Unearthed Cavernous Strata Andreas Körner is an Austrian architectural designer and researcher. He graduated from TU Wien and the Bartlett School of Architecture. Andreas has been teaching in Oxford, Innsbruck, Tallinn, and London, where he is part of the group Biophile. His work was shown at the London Festival of Architecture, during London Design Week, at the Tallinn Architecture Biennale and the Copenhagen Art Fair. Andreas is currently committed to his doctoral studies on Disclosing Climate at Universität Innsbruck. In Innsbruck he teaches on graduate on postgraduate levels while leading the student-run Independent Architectural Research Colloquia (IARC). His personal research lies in the overlap of the fields of ornament, computational design, fluid dynamics, meteorological landscapes, and active materials. Andreas’ special interested in regards of soil lies in the environmental relationships between the natural and the built environment. He is especially interested how folding and layering of this vital substrate can create architectural strata and inhabitable caverns.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

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“[…] earth, waters, and climate, the mute world, the voiceless things once placed as a decor surrounding the usual spectacles, all those things that never interested anyone, from now on thrust themselves brutally and without warning into our schemes and maneuvers. They burst in on our culture, which had never formed anything but a local, vague, and cosmetic idea of them: nature.”1

transformed into many shapes and forms. This text revisits such past structures and theoretical discussions with the aim to unearth underlying thoughts on the role of soil in architecture. I take the authorial liberty in the final paragraphs to speculate on possible, and sometimes fantastic, archaeologies and architectures. In this sense the accompanying images are a mix of photographs and concept visualisations, progressing from the material to the digital and back along the text.

Schichten2 In his 1993 book Soft Systems, architectural theorist Sanford Kwinter at one point suggests that the future will be “a world where materials themselves are becoming active shapers of our dynamic environment.”3 While he is rightly concluding that smart materials will play a crucial part in how we construct our (now) present and will design our future environment, we should also look back at our natural- and our builtenvironments foundations. In the context of this issue’s theme SOIL, the following essay aims to give a brief overview of the relevance of soilrelated thoughts to the contemporary discussions around climate, sustainability, and digital design. Historic figures like (mainly) Alexander von Humboldt and some of his contemporaries (± fifty years) act as important companions along the way, since their contributions to our understanding of earth – and I mean here both planet and substrate – are great resources. Many peoples throughout history create incredible architecture by using stones, soil, earth, or clay. By means of carving, layering, heaping, and digging this ubiquitous substrate has been morphed and

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“Push further back into the geological record, and everything becomes fluid. The seabed is found in the mountain, the forests are deep under the ground, the shorelines have been erased and written over. The very plates of the Earth have moved, the oceans have come and gone; what remains is a crumpled palimpsest of all these past states.”4 Layering and Dissecting In his 1845 Kosmos Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859) proposed a then novel idea: nature as a world of interlinked parts which organically influence each other.5 He described the earth as a breathing system that continuously transforms itself; our planet as a convoluted, layered and morphing organism. Humboldt’s relevance to science and the philosophy of science remains unchallenged and his thoughts endure as the foundation of environmentalism. Ecological thinking is becoming the paradigm of our time and an integral part of design thinking. Humboldt was a geologist after all. He first got

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the opportunity to proof his scientific skills as a geologist working for government agencies in mines across the country. There he engaged with the depths of the earth first, only later he would focus on the planet’s higher grounds. His studies in the federal mines brought him in tangible contact with the constant change that the earth undergoes.6 While Humboldt slowly but steadily turned his attention to higher altitudes and entire landscapes - as well as ecosystems - roughly a century earlier, others were looking very closely at the micro scale of mineral formations. The intermittent Benedictine monk Franz Uibelaker (*1742), formerly known as Johann Georg Übelacker,7 investigated the sinters and sediments at Carlsbad. The specimens where beautifully illustrated by the German illustrator Lachenbauer.8 The resulting 39 copper plates where consequently published in Uibelaker’s 1781 System des Karlsbader Sinters9 show intricate and delicate representations of all sorts of mineral samples. The high level of detail shows many different layers, inclusions, and encapsulations. The striated morphologies, visible through clean rock sections, remind the viewer of large mountain formations and cliffs. Uibelaker intended to conclude a sort of color theory derived from the chromatic system of the minerals. While the results are beautiful to look and a source for aesthetic as well as scientific inspiration, they also show how the continuous folding and layering of soil happens across many scales. 10 The French artist Paul Cézanne (1839-1906)

(1): Quwwat ul-Islam Mosque. Qutb complex, Delhi. 2014. Photo by Andreas Koerner.

ANDREAS KÖRNER

(2): Limestone depositions in Pamukkale. Turkey. 2015. Photo by Andreas Koerner.

(3): Digital Fossil Panel. 2020 (2019). Rendering by Andreas Koerner.

was fascinated with the earth’s strata when observing landscapes that had been altered by new technology. Railway tracks cutting through hills and by this process of excavation revealing the underlying layers were documented in his painting La tranchée avec la montagne Sainte Victoire, painted around 1870.11 Existing built structures that strongly play with the revealing of natural patterns by excavating cavities out of solid rock can be found in the ancient city of Petra in Jordan. The world-famous Nabataean settlement is almost entirely carved out of the stone formations in situ. Many of the carved facades, built over several centuries long into the Roman occupation, resemble familiar architectural typologies, ornament, and styles. But there are also other surfaces to be found when exploring the abandoned structures. Venturing a bit off the path, one can find beautifully colorful cavity spaces. The colors of the sliced strata range from white to red to yellow and shades of purple. By cutting into the stone, the people of Petra laid

nature’s beauty bare and created spaces where one can feel very close to earth.

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“The slow grind of the continents pushes mountains into place and shapes the boundaries of the seas; land bridges open up to allow great migrations, seas rise to cover the land, ice sheets encroach and then recede.”12 Interconnected Folds The aesthetics of constant morphing, of intricate layering, of cavities, strata, and metamorphosis have intrigued not only 18th and 19th century artists and scientists. Roughly two hundred years after Uibelaker a new discussion of folding gained popularity among architects. After the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze’s publication of The Fold,13 around 1990, a young generation of architects with a strong affinity for digital design tools was drawing quick conclusions. The

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(4): Close-up of red-coloured strata in Petra. Jordan. 2018. Photo by Andreas Koerner.

new tools made curvilinear shapes comparably easy to control and digital fabrication techniques gave immediate physical results. Especially Bernard Cache’s 1995 book Earth Moves creates a link between the work of Deleuze, architecture and climate (and the urban scale).14 The Fold was taken literally and found immediate formal manifestation. While Deleuze’s ideas were not bound to material manifestations, but nonetheless connected to Wölfflin’s15 methods of abstraction, they immediately provoked direct translations by architects, resulting in convoluted envelopes, blobs, and constantly morphing organic shapes.16 While Deleuze’s Fold remains a philosophical framework for curvilinear and

folded formal expressions, he contributed with at least another publication to this discourse. His collaboration with Felix Guattari in the 1970s brought forth another earthly concept: that of Rhizome.17 The term is borrowed from the botanical rhizome: the subterranean network created by all fungi. Through this network the organisms communicate with each other and other species in symbiotic relationships. It is a strong metaphor for interconnectiveness, and its six rhizomatic principles are “multiple connectability at every point, heterogeneity of all components of the system, multiplicity without a generating unity, rupture without significance, cartographability, and transfer.”18 Together, folding – including layering respectively – and

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rhizomatic connectiveness both correspond heavily with digital aesthetics since the end of the 21st century. They also – although not stated like that – bear reference to Alexander von Humboldt’s wider concept of an interrelated world. In his work he keeps repeating phrases about how the whole world is connected; how everything is in relationship with each other.19 “[…] yet the succession of forms tends to be replaced by the form of a continuous development, and the variability of matters tends to be replaced by the matter of a continuous variation.”20 Regarding architecture, Humboldt’s ideas invite for speculations. His emphasis on verticality as a key driver of diversity – ecosystems change far more dramatically with altitude than with latitude – finds its revival in contemporary meteorological architecture such as: the various exemplary work of the Swiss architect Philip Rahm, or Diller & Scorfido + Renfro’s 2002 Blur Building, and the 2010 Venice Biennale contribution Cloudscapes by German climate engineers Transsolar and Japanese architect Tetsuo Kondo. Although Humboldt was constantly measuring air pressure, humidity, temperature and other atmospheric parameters – while climbing several mountains and volcanoes despite bad equipment and horrific weather conditions – he saw mountains through the lens of a geologist: folded soil that is in permanent flux.21 For him soil seems to have represented the fertile layer, draped upon the mineral strata of our inhabitable

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world. By folding this layer, we humans can shape our world. It is a very architectural thing, to see soil as a folding and enveloping substance. After all, soil has often been defined as being the foundation of any building. Gottfried Semper (1803-1879) in his The Four Elements of Architecture, published in 1851 in German and in English in 1889, stated the ‘mound or earthwork’ as one of four elements of architecture.22 That Semper’s book was published in the same year as Traugott Bromme’s Atlas zu Alexander von Humboldt’s Kosmos23 – an illustrated companion to Humboldt’s original Kosmos published in 1845 – both in German, might be a coincidence. One could speculate if it was a common Zeitgeist at this time, to see everything as interrelated, or if this specific date is more connected to London’s Great Exhibition in the same year. In 1852 Eugene von Guérard, an Austrian artist, emigrated to Australia to join the goldrush. Since the endeavor to unearth shiny treasures from within the soil quickly proved itself to be unsuccessful, he tried his luck as a painter. During the 1860s he travelled across Australia and New Zealand, documenting picturesque landscapes, folding geologies and lively wilderness. His paintings are relevant in this context, because he adds a layer of romanticism to it. While – as some examples in this article show – the appreciation of nature and its materials is not novel, but the elevation of wilderness to an aesthetic paradigm is new. As a culture we are currently experiencing a dramatic change in how our relationship to nature is negotiated. Consequently, we must not only look

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(5): Mineral Bark. 2019. Rendering by Andreas Koerner.

for contemporary technology for answers, but also review ancient techniques that could help us become more sustainable. Constructed Atmospheres On his five-year-long journey through Southand Central America (1799-1804) Alexander von Humboldt also visited what is present-day Peru. He travelled the Andes extensively, climbing many mountains and collecting thousands of specimens. On his journey he mapped rivers and described, as well as sketched, the many different landscapes and ecosystems he passed through, over, and by. He discovered that the short time since the first European settlements on the American continents left disastrous marks on the natural environment in many

places. He described how clearing forests and draining swamps, as well as the excess draining of lakes can irreversibly destroy entire landscapes over time.24With this he was describing the delicacy of nature, and that small changes in this dynamic world can have big consequences far away. He was, with this concept, one of the early environmentalists, calling for awareness for natural habitats. Although Humboldt covered vast distances on his journey, he was aware that the greatest, and most imminent, changes in climate happen along altitude, not latitude. While travelling along the western coast of South America he made a stop in Lima which he reached via ship. If he travelled land inwards, he could have seen a piece of ancient architecture which’s function heavily emphasized one of Humboldt’s core principles: That flora and fauna,

ANDREAS KÖRNER

6: Moray greenhouse. Cusco, Perú. 2019. Photo by Renny Gamarra. https://www.unsplash.com/ (Free commercial use)

because of local microclimates, change much more dramatically with altitude, than they do with latitude and longitude.25

“’The observer who leaves the centre of the earth by an infinitely small amount compared to the radius can reach a new world, so to speak,’ far more than ‘if he were to pass from one latitude to another’.”26

Roughly three hundred miles east of Lima is the archaeological site of Moray. It is an ancient Inca ruin located about 11,500 feet above sea

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level. The site consists of a series of circular depression. The structures are terraced and, according to wind direction and sun position, create different temperature zones within the structure. Archaeological excavations indicate that they were used to sample soil and test varieties of crops in different climate zones.27 These landscape devices where artificial structures that re-created a natural phenomenon on a smaller scale with intensified effects. Such terraces, the ones in Moray are not a singular phenomenon, were able to simulate a plethora of weather situations in a controlled and experimental manner. The site also had a sophisticated irrigation system which allowed to further specify

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microclimates. The Inca’s simulated landscapes in the form of such terraced structures did not only construct environments, they also represent a successful combination of solid architecture with strong meteorological performances. Their ultimate function was of atmospheric nature, creating a multitude of climates where there has naturally been a mostly homogeneous condition. The earth’s – substrate’s – function in this case was not restricted to a purely fundamental28 performance but had a strong vertical aspect too. The different types of soil, carefully placed on each terrace according to season and orientation, resembled distant weather conditions concentrated on a very small area. The ability to generate weather, by terraforming large earthen structures to simulate atmospheric variety, allowed those ancient civilizations to create an unparalleled diversity of sophisticated crop strands; each specific to a distinct climate. By this they increased the fertility of the soil relative to its location in correspondence with the planted crop species. “What got on my nerves were the newts in every pool, a seething mass of newts in every one-day puddle – all this procreation, this stench of fertility, of blossoming decay. Wherever you spat it germinated!”29 Natural Walls What the Inca did with their terraces in the Andes is not so different to what today’s architects do when designing large buildings. It is common practice to create large atriums for natural

ventilation, and to use sophisticated air channeling networks for increased stack effect. Another strategy to increase sustainability passively is to cover buildings with earth. Green roofs use the natural ability of soil and vegetation to create hospitable microclimates and by this mediate heat and cold impact on the building’s energy balance. Earthship architecture uses passive strategies to harness solar heat and the natural insulation capabilities of soil. Rammed earth becomes a less and less exotic building material in modern construction. This particularly earthen construction method creates a distinctive texture on the outside of walls which can be controlled to mimic natural sedimentation on a scale somewhere between Humboldt’s alpine strata and Uibelaker’s intricate sections of minerals. By heaping up soil and using it as vertical structures we do not only expose its materiality as bioornament, we also expose it to the impact of weathering. The walls, if untreated, become hosts and change appearance over time; by this telling their own story of constant change and flux, of metamorphosis and weathering. They create a condition like what David Gissen a decade ago in the context of the built-environment coined Subnature.30 In this book he introduces a series of projects across many disciplines and design practices that suggest that we can never recreate pure nature. They all suggest that there are necessarily untidy elements, which ultimately constitute nature. Two interesting examples of such a weathering process on more or less earthen architectural surfaces, to achieve an ornamental effect, are:

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First, the department store De Bijenkorf in Rotterdam, built after plans by Marcel Breuer and A. Elsaz, constructed between 1955 and 1957.31 Second, Herzog & de Meuron’s Ricola production and storage hall in MulhouseBrunnstatt, constructed between 1992 and 1993. In first case the direction of the underlying strata of the hexagonal stone façade panels creates an impressive pattern over time. The rainwater, running down the building’s vertical travertine envelope, slowly leaves it marks and creates an organic pattern. In the case of the Ricola building in France, the same happens along the short concrete façades. In both examples, the natural environment “paints”32 on the built environment, adding an additional layer of natural complexity onto the planned artificial. The walls, vertical earthen elements,33 become habitats, that bring the usually horizontal performance of soil into another spatial dimension. The walls accumulate dirt and residue over time, changing appearance and indicating inevitable decay as well as a certain fertility once moss starts growing. A project that takes this concept further in terms of embedding fertile soil into concrete structures and actively seeing moss to inhabit the architectural envelope is the Architectural Bark project by two University College London researchers: Marcos Cruz and Richard Beckett. Their project aims to suggest a paradigm shift “from the notion of skin, one of the most used metaphors in contemporary architecture, to that of an architectural bark, which is more receptive, mediating between internal and external conditions.”34 The result are concrete façade panels that have an expressive toolpath structure, which actively slows down

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water running along the surface, therefore creating optimal growth conditions for certain plants. While all three examples use static, solid, and long-lasting construction materials, another project by the transdisciplinary Austrian office MAEID together in collaboration with Marjan Colletti investigates the possibilities to use soil directly as a building material. For their 2018 project Soil 3d Printing they used hydrogel to bind soil in situ. The hydrogel was 3d-printed into a powder bed of soil using a couple of industrial robots. The resulting structure is not only highly organic in shape and materiality, but also acts as a host for fungi after completion.35 The state-of-the-art examples done by peers referred to here are all different in scale, construction material and fabrication process. Nonetheless, they all engage with the consequences of unearthing and weathering. They have in common the appearance of strata as a method of formation somewhere along the design process. In the case of the façade in Rotterdam it is the orientation of sliced natural stone panels which reveals the material’s folded layers over time. The concrete façade of the Ricola building turns into a quasi-barcode over time because of the vertical lines created by flowing rainwater. Architectural Bark uses the traces of a subtractive digital fabrication technique to excavate a structure layer by layer, which is later cast in concrete. Soil 3d Printing shows research that uses an additive robotic fabrication technique to solidify soil layer by layer with a biodegradable compound into superorganic structures.

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a quick internet search reveals the artwork’s artificial nature. The contemporary discourse on climate crisis requires us architects to rethink how we engage with landscapes, habitats, and ecologic design.36 Respectively, the three designs deal with one of the before-mentioned topics: layering, altitude, folding, and atmosphere. Building Depositions

(7): Threshold Occupation. London. 2017. Model and photo by Andreas Koerner with Biophile.

Speculations The following series of architectural design speculations discuss both the portrayal of atmospheric altitude and the role of soil as ground, earth, rock, and substrate. The images form a series of three. They consist of digital collages of design concepts, embedded in settings that are commonly associated with nature. While being monolithic and of solid appearance – suggesting everlasting stone structures – they speak of an imaginary past. They’re intentionally uncanny, provoking doubt and investigation. Ultimately no reader can be truly deceived, since

One imagines an ancient culture which uses the thermal powers of the ground. By harnessing the underground heat at locations where the earth’s crust is thin and permeable, such a culture could live off the land it is built upon. Geysers do not only supply heat and water, they also fill the air with water vapor. Such structures – Geyser towers – create architectural microclimates. The geysers erupt in the center of the building and while the steam rises upwards it interacts with the indoor atriums. In the process, the buildings require two operational phases and their oscillation defines the diurnal rhythm of the inhabitants. Every time the geyser erupts, the internal atrium is shut off to protect the inhabitable spaces from the boiling temperatures. The interior is shaped in a way, that it uses thermal mass to store the heat, by this creating a warm core at night. While the steam is diverted by night, the structures inhabitants turn their attention to the inside. This concept imagines a concept where the two natural theories of Neptunism and Plutonism coexist: 37 Speculating on alternative outcomes of this 18th century debate and suggesting a culture which looks down into the ground, rather than up into the sky.

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Ascending Soils

Harvesting Atmospheres

To really understand those gigantic structures, one must climb them like mountains. It is an alpine experience. It is an experience of upwards and downwards. Invisible environmental parameters such as temperature, humidity, and air movement change with altitude. Such mountainous environments are stacked ecosystems. A vertical landscape of folded microclimates. The architecture built from solid rock and other hardened soils absorbs humidity and temperature. Such structures – the Alpine towers – are placed in the valleys between peaks. The tall slender structures act similarly to forest giants, housing other species within themselves. Their folded tectonics trap air and according to the position of the sun generate strong upward winds that suck the warm air in on ground level and deliver it to the cold top. Monolithic and eternal, they thrive for higher altitudes while maintaining a strong, and massive, connection to the ground. It is less an architecture of lightness and lift, but more an architecture of extension. The towers act as mineral extremities of the ground: layer upon layer stacked until higher altitudes are reached. Where the Incan terraces where carving soil off the terrain, such upwards folding towers add strata to achieve height. The results are alpine artifacts: “objects thought to be made rather than grown.”38

Multi-layered and cavernous the appearance of this ancient structure stands tall in the salty valley. The receding water collected in small ponds and the salt crystalised. The water left what it brought with itself: sand, rocks, and other sediments. Over time they formed layered walls and shells which the local people occupied. Layer by layer the moved inwards as the water disappeared due to warming temperatures. No one knows where the water went. Such a cavernous architecture invites to explore and discover. With time, the ancient people built artificial structures inside the voids left by nature. Nestled in-between the layers, those permeable columns of stacked monoliths harnessed the power of air channelled through the folded spaces. The water vapour condensates on the cool surfaces inside, flowing down along the surfaces and leaving decorative marks. It is an architecture that shapes boundaries by modifying natural structures, adding artificial ones only where necessary. This architecture is an architecture of moving air, since “air […] is one of the single most valuable materials in architecture, possibly the only one that architects should not relinquish.”39 “What had been islands became isolated plateaus, standing several kilometres proud

(8): Geyser tower. 2019. Rendering by Andreas Koerner. Background image: Brown pebble on seashore. Iceland. 2018. Photo by Rasmus Smedstrup Mortensen. https://www.unsplash.com/ (Free commercial use).

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(10): The catcher. 2020. Rendering by Andreas Koerner. Background image: Salt Mines. Maras Salt Mines, Peru. 2017. Photo by Jeff Hilnbrand. https://www.unsplash.com/ (Free commercial use).

of the salt; the mouth of the Nile cut itself a valley two and a half kilometres deeper than present-day Cairo. Eventually the Atlantic broke through again, falling in a fourkilometre waterfall into the empty basin of the sea, refilling the Mediterranean at a rate of ten metres a day.”40 VISIONS With such fantastic, dreamy, proposals I do not intend to play with fiction. They are rather vehicles to challenge a contemporary understanding of sustainability, that is purely driven by data and technology: green walls. They are alternative possibilities, that could help to negotiate new

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relationships between us, inhabitants, and our planet earth. As architects we can propose possible futures because, in the words of Greg Lynn, “architects produce drawings of buildings and not buildings themselves [and] architecture, more than any other discipline, is involved with the production of virtual descriptions.”41 In the spirit of visionaries like Paolo Soleri (1919-2013) and Frederick Kiesler (1890-1965) architects of nowadays could dream of new relationships with earth. Like the two mentioned thinkers and designers, we could use such speculations to find alternative paths of sustainability and materiality – either “the ‘brute materiality’ of the physical world” or “the ways this world is appropriated in human projects”42 – that provide a cultural

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(9): Alpine tower. 2019. Rendering by Andreas Koerner. Background image: Landscape photography of foggy mountain rocks. 2016. Photo by Trần Ngọc Vân. https://www.unsplash.com/ (Free commercial use).

reference to scientific data. Both Soleri and Kiesler where looking at our relationship to earth in their work. Soleri on an urban scale43 and Kiesler in the context of a house.44 In both cases their fantastic visions always contained a seed of feasibility and tangibility. In the spirit of Humboldt – and this is my personal conclusion – they understood the relevance of time, interconnectedness, and correlation45 of our world, its nature, and the soil we are so generously provided to dwell upon.

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Endnotes 1 Michel Serres, The Natural Contract, Studies in literature and science (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1995), 3. 2 “Schichten” is the German word for “strata.” Due to the nature of many of the cited works, some German words occur in the text which will always be translated in the accompanying notes. Also, many references are German editions of books or the German originals of the core references. 3 Sanford Kwinter, “Soft Systems,” in Culture Lab 1, ed. Brian Boigon (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 224–25. 4 Francis Gooding, “Hell Pigs,” London Review of Books 42, no. 1 (2020), https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v42/n01/francis- gooding/hell-pigs. 5 Alexander von Humboldt, Kosmos: Entwurf Einer Physischen Weltbeschreibung, 1 vol. 5 (Stuttgart/Tübingen: Cotta, 1845). 6 Andrea Wulf, Alexander von Humboldt und die Erfindung der Natur, 1st ed. (München: Penguin, 2018). 7 Uibelaker wrote himself in the French style Ubelacker and is also known as Üblacker and Uibelacker. Biographic information on this flamboyant character is rare. He spent roughly two decades as a monk, travelled extensively and was involved in a series of architecture projects during the late South German Baroque. Some data be found online, unfortunately only in German: http://www.sueddeutscher-barock.ch/In-Meister/s-z/Uebelacker_Franz.html 8 Mariabruna Fabrizi, “Color Schemes from Geology: A Work by Uibelakers (1781),” SOCKS, accessed January 20, 2020, http://socks-studio.com/2020/01/16/color-schemes-from-geology-a-work-by-uibelakers-1781/. 9 Franz Uibelaker, System des Karlsbader Sinters unter Vorstellung schöner und seltener Stücke samt einem Versuche einer mineralischen Geschichte desselben und dahin einschlagenden Lehre über die Farben (Erlangen: Wolfgang Walthers, 1781), https://doi.org/10.3931/e-rara-15563. 10 Low resolution scans of Uibelaker’s work are easily accessible online. High resolutions suitable for print are not yet accessible via the internet. The basis for the information in this article was the available PDF copy at the book at the ETH-Library in Zurich. 11 https://www.pinakothek.de/kunst/paul-cezanne/der-bahndurchstich#, accessed January 28, 2020. 12 Gooding, “Hell Pigs” 13 Originally published in French (1988) and subsequently translated into English in 1993. 14 Bernard Cache, Earth Moves: The Furnishing of Territories, 10. [pr.], Writing architecture (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2010). 15 Gilles Deleuze, The Fold: Leibniz and the Baroque, Continuum impacts (London: Continuum, 1993), 4. 16 Anthony Vidler, Warped Space: Art, Architecture, and Anxiety in Modern Culture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 223–24. 17 Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, 15th print (Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 2014). 18 Omar Calabrese, Neo-Baroque: A Sign of the Times ([S.l.]: Princeton University Press, 2017), 140. 19 Wulf, Alexander von Humboldt und die Erfindung der Natur. 20 Tim Ingold, “Toward an Ecology of Materials,” Annual Review of Anthropology 41 (2012): 434, http://www.jstor.org/ stable/23270720. 21 Humboldt, Kosmos. 22 Gottfried Semper, The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings, RES monographs in anthropology and aesthetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 23 Traugott Bromme, Atlas zu Alexander von Humboldt’s Kosmos: Zweiunfvierzig Tafeln mit erläuterndem Texte 2 (Stuttgart: Kreis & Hoffmann, 1851-1854), https://doi.org/10.3931/e-rara-31006.

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24 Wulf, Alexander von Humboldt und die Erfindung der Natur, 83–84. 25 Joyce Chaplin, “Blues of Many Skies,” London Review of Books 41, no. 4 (2019): 19, https://www.lrb.co.uk/v41/n04/ joyce-chaplin/blues-of-many-skies. 26 Chaplin, “Blues of Many Skies,” 19. 27 https://www.amusingplanet.com/2013/03/the-mysterious-moray-agricultural.html 28 “Fundament“ is the German equivalent of the English “foundation.” 29 Max Frisch, Homo Faber (London: Abelard-Schuman, 1959), 55. 30 David Gissen, Subnature: Architecture’s Other Environments (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2009). 31 Caspary, Ornamente Der Fassade in Der Europäischen Architektur Seit Den 1990er Jahren (Berlin: Jovis, 2013), 226–27. 32 Caspary, Ornamente der Fassade in der europäischen Architektur seit den 1990er Jahren, 231. 33 Here “earthen“ includes solid mineral materials like concrete and travertine and a more loosely defined context. 34 Marcos Cruz and Richard Beckett, “Bioreceptive Design: A Novel Approach to Biodigital Materiality,” Architectural Research Quarterly 20, no. 1 (2016): 51, https://doi.org/10.1017/S1359135516000130. 35 Daniela Mitterberger and Tiziano Derme, “Soil 3D Printing: Combining Robotic Binder-Jetting Processes with Organic Composites for Biodegradable Soil Structures,” in Ubiquity and Autonomy, ed. Cory Bieg, Danelle Briscoe and Clay Odom (Austin, 2019), accessed December 19, 2019, http://papers.cumincad.org/cgi-bin/works/paper/ acadia19_586. 36 Lydia Kallipoliti, “History of Ecological Design,” in Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Environmental Science, ed. Lydia Kallipoliti (Oxford University Press, 2018), 1 Coincidentally the term ecologic design was first coined by Erns Haeckel (1834-1919). He was a late contemporary of Gottfried Semper. Gottfried Semper is responsible for the design of the Natural History Museum of Vienna (1872-1889) amongst many other large public buildings along the Viennese Ringstraße. Ernst Haeckel is most famous among architects for his Kunstformen der Natur (engl. Art Forms in Nature), 1899-1904. It is a book of lithographic and halftone prints, mainly showing microscopic and marine organisms. Haeckel’s work is strongly influenced by 19th century formal and evolutionary paradigms and the illustrations aren’t always according to nature, but slightly adapted to fit those paradigms. One of such paradigms is that of symmetry. 37 Neptunism is a now obsolete theory, popular in the 18th century, that postulates that all matter is created in the oceans. Plutonism on the other side, rightly attributed this responsibility to volcanic activities. 38 Ingold, “Toward an Ecology of Materials,” 439. 39 Inaki Abalos and Renata Sentkiewicz, “Sources and Skins, a Typological/Thermodynamic Outline,” in Abalos + Sentkiewicz: Essays on Thermodynamics, Architecture and Beauty, ed. Lluís Ortega, Iñaki Abalos and Renata Snetkiewicz (New York: Actar D, 2015), 239. 40 Gooding, “Hell Pigs” 41 Greg Lynn, Animate Form (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1999), 10. 42 Ingold, “Toward an Ecology of Materials,” 439. 43 Paolo Soleri, Arcology: The City in the Image of Man, 1. MIT Press paperback ed., MIT (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Pr, 1973). 44 Frederick Kiesler, “The “Endless House”: A Man-Built Cosmos,” in Selected Writings, ed. Frederick J. Kiesler, Siegfried Gohr and Gunda Luyken (Stuttgart: Gerd Hatje, 1997). 45 Frederick Kiesler, “On Correalism and Biotechnique: A Definition and Test of a New Approach to Building Design,” in Rethinking Technology: A Reader in Architectural Theory, ed. William W. Braham, Jonathan A. Hale and John S. Sadar (New York: Routledge, 2007).

026 028 030 032 034 036 038 040 042 044 046 048 Andrea Alberto Dutto

The Logic of Depth Andrea Alberto Dutto, has been appointed as adjunct professor in Architectural Design at the Politecnico di Torino (Italy) in 2019. In 2010, he graduated with a dual degree in Architecture at the École Supérieure Nationale d’Architecture de Marseille and the Politecnico di Torino. He holds the title of Doktor der Ingenieurwissenschaften at the RWTH Aachen in joint agreement with the title of Ph.D. at the Politecnico di Torino with a dissertation that has been published in 2018, with the title “The Legacy of Handbooks. The paradigm of distribution in architectural design”. As Ph.D. candidate he has been awarded with the Ph.D. Quality Prize of the Politecnico di Torino in 2014. In 2018 he worked as Postdoc Researcher at the Department of Architecture and Design of the Politecnico di Torino.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

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For a long period, ranging between Vitruvius’ De architectura and the eighteenth century, architecture relates to a thin portion of the earth’s crust. The first ten meters of soil or what, but no deeper than that. A depth of soil featuring bearing capacities. Actually, it is known that, since the archaic era, architecture has maintained a symbolic relationship with landform, and later on with the science of geomorphology. And that architecture can be considered a layer of the earth’s crust (Palma 2019) is shown by the great monumental constructions conceived by the ancient Romans, as Ricardo Palma states with a specific reference to the Roman Forum: which, in some points, has a thickness of 12 meters below the floor, and hosts a series of hidden architectures [that] are intended to remind the Romans of the obliteration of the previous swamp (Palma 2019, 92). In addition, architecture undertakes a relationship with the earth’s depth. This happens, in particular, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, when geology and other scientific branches portray the extraordinarily complexity and dynamicity of the subterranean world. And the interaction among these disciplines, such as with architecture, will happens on the occasion of manifestation of such dynamism at the surface. Since the beginning of the twentieth century, disastrous events like the one in the Strait of Messina in 1908, cause an intensification of earthquake studies that benefit from the dizzying technological development started during the nineteenth century. Among

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disciplines that played a decisive role in the reconstruction processes, engineering and seismology must certainly be mentioned. Anti-seismic architecture features different orientations, actually. On the one hand, are the supporters of technological development aimed at adapting the structural behaviour of preexisting building typologies, avoiding the aim to invent a new architecture. On the other hand, architects aim at formulating a new architecture; where ‘new’ stands for a new methodology of design. Thus, architecture is faced with a crossroads: innovating building technologies without changing the urban rules, or rather attempt new strategies and forms of city making. However, it is interesting to notice that, regardless of how architects pose the problem, the reason for choosing one direction over the other lies outside architecture. It lies, for instance, into geology and seismology or, in other cases, in anthropology and sociology. Indeed, it is through the dialogue with a specific discipline that architecture achieves an orientation. Perhaps the dialogue with anthropology will produce more empathic outcomes, while the one with geology will have more abstract ones… But that does not really matter. What matters is that architecture turns itself into a technology, rooted in the possibility to translate scientific contributions into building arrangements. Hence, the evolution of epistemological configuration, featuring death and birth of scientific disciplines overtime, embody the same of architecture as well.

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obliteration of the previous swamp (Palma 2019, 92).

(1) The earthquake area in the Strait of Scilla and Cariddi. Paper published in the manual of Antonio Pedrini (Hoepli, 1910).

For a long period, ranging between Vitruvius’ De architectura and the eighteenth century, architecture relates to a thin portion of the earth’s crust. The first ten meters of soil or what, but no deeper than that. A depth of soil featuring bearing capacities. Actually, it is known that, since the archaic era, architecture has maintained a symbolic relationship with landform, and later on with the science of geomorphology. And that architecture can be considered a layer of the earth’s crust (see Palma 2019) is shown by the great monumental constructions conceived by the ancient Romans, as Ricardo Palma states with a specific reference to the Roman Forum: which, in some points, has a thickness of 12 meters below the floor, and hosts a series of hidden architectures [that] are intended to remind the Romans of the

In addition, architecture undertakes a relationship with the earth’s depth. This happens, in particular, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, when geology and other scientific branches portray the extraordinarily complexity and dynamicity of the subterranean world. And the interaction among these disciplines, such as with architecture, will happens on the occasion of manifestation of such dynamism at the surface. Since the beginning of the twentieth century, disastrous events like the one in the Strait of Messina in 1908, cause an intensification of earthquake studies that benefit from the dizzying technological development started during the nineteenth century. Among disciplines that played a decisive role in the reconstruction processes, engineering and seismology must certainly be mentioned. Anti-seismic architecture features different orientations, actually. On the one hand, are the supporters of technological development aimed at adapting the structural behaviour of preexisting building typologies, avoiding the aim to invent a new architecture. On the other hand, architects aim at formulating a new architecture; where ‘new’ stands for a new methodology of design. Thus, architecture is faced with a crossroads: innovating building technologies without changing the urban rules, or rather attempt new strategies and forms of city making. However, it is interesting to notice that, regardless of how architects pose the problem, the reason for choosing one direction over the other lies

ANDREA ALBERTO DUTTO

(2) G. Vivenzio, Project for the “Casa Baraccata” (1783). Plan and foundations layout.

(3) G. Vivenzio, Project for the “Casa Baraccata” (1783). Layers of the façade.

outside architecture. It lies, for instance, into geology and seismology or, in other cases, in anthropology and sociology. Indeed, it is through the dialogue with a specific discipline that architecture achieves an orientation. Perhaps the dialogue with anthropology will produce more empathic outcomes, while the one with geology will have more abstract ones… But that does not really matter. What matters is that architecture turns itself into a technology, rooted in the possibility to translate scientific contributions into building arrangements. Hence, the evolution of epistemological configuration, featuring death and birth of scientific disciplines overtime, embody the same of architecture as well.

of which the latest is the Shaanxi earthquake, which occurred in 1556 and caused about 830,000 deaths. Before seismologists, early nonsystematic observations of seismic phenomena are provided by geographers. Among these, Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859) writes a series of notes, in his Personal narratives, about his experience of a seismic event in Cumana, Venezuela, in 1799 (see Coen 2012, 106-114). This earthquake occurs two years after a previous event that causes 16,000 victims. Humboldt does not economize on descriptions of his experience and portrays the smallest details, devoting particular attention to warning signs. Such trauma deeply marks Humboldt so much that later on, in his popular book Kosmos: entwurf einer physischen Weltbeschreibung (1845), he’ll back questioning it once more. Here, Humboldt focuses on the psychological consequences of the earthquake. Shortly: on fear. What he could

Seismology achieves the status of scientific discipline not before the late nineteenth century. Earth history has already recorded at least eight seismic events with a magnitude greater than 7,

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(4a) J.G. Strobërle, Allegory to the 1755 Earthquake (1755).

(4b) The church of San Giovanni in Messina in the postearthquake, photographed by Argus.

experience in Cumana, along with other events worldwide, is that native populations embody fear as an anthropological condition. Thus, as fear is assumed as a structural component of the social apparatus, a certain sympathy for precarity ends up featuring their dwellings.

enough in order to face such a violent event. Many houses built in the aftermath of an earthquake of magnitude 5.9, occurred in the 1783, adopt an innovative anti-seismic technology, coming from Portugal, known as “Pombalian Cage”. Its name is due to the Marquis of Pombal, minister in charge of Lisbon reconstruction after the earthquake of November 1, 1755. The “Pombalian Cage” consists of a wooden frame structure (in oak or holm oak) whose function is to ensure the resistance of the floors and roof and to leave the facade independently collapse, in the event of an earthquake.

Weakness and Sedentary Nomadology The first devastating seismic event of the twentieth century takes place in Messina and Reggio Calabria in the early morning of December 28, 1908, with its epicentre in the Strait of Scilla and Cariddi [fig. 1]. 125,000 people die and 90% of buildings collapse. However, the densely populated area of the Strait (in 1901 Messina had 147,589 inhabitants; Reggio Calabria had 77,761) is not new to seismic events. As witnessed by photographs took in the days immediately following the earthquake, large part of the damaged buildings is already conceived with anti-seismic technologies, but still not robust

The worldwide success of “Pombalian Cage” as a model of antiseismic technology is certainly due to the diffusion of technical publications. And it becomes certainly the inspiration of Giovanni Vivenzio’s “Casa Baraccata”, though this one achieves definitely less notoriety in the domain of building technologies. In his treatise Istoria e teoria de’ tremuoti (1783), Vivenzio dedicates

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(5) Facade under construction (Berlin, 1909).

several drawings to the “Casa Baraccata”, with particular focus on construction details. The knots placed at the corners of the wooden frame are designed in such a way to constitute a static system, saturated in the cavities with cut stone. The plan is arranged as a symmetrical composition of square-shaped blocks [fig. 2]. Above all, however, the facade is of particular interest. The facade of the “Casa Baraccata” is not singular but double, namely, made up of two overlapping layers [fig. 3]. Actually, the first layer is infilled in the wall, and coincides with a wooden frame that extends to all parts of the building, from the foundations to the roof. The second layer concerns the visible side of the wall, conceived according to the classical canons of architecture and in autonomy from the previous layer. Nevertheless, Vivenzio’s “Casa Baraccata” must not be simply matched with another typology of wooden structure widespread in Germany,

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France and England, since the thirteenth century, and known with the German term “Fachwerkbau”. In this typology, the wooden frame is filled with mixtures of lime and earth, but in a way that leaves the frame visible from the outside. Thus, the picturesque outcome is only apparently ornamental. The “Fachwerkbau“ shows to the outside viewer how the structure is truly arranged and avoids the need for an additional layer, namely an outer façade, as it happens in the case of “Casa Baraccata”. The façade of the “Casa Baraccata” is a rather autonomous element; in a way, it is not far from Robert Venturi’s “Decorated Shed”. This condition has several reasons. Both in the context of Lisbon and Reggio Calabria, the city develops solid urban conventions well in advance of the earthquake. And the facade is undoubtedly a key element in the construction of the city. The “Casa Baraccata” represents a device of infinitely reproductions of the façade, therefore, of the

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(6b) Photograph entitled “How an upcoming Messina street could be” published on “Natura e Arte” (1908).

(6a) M.A. Boldi, Project of the anti-seismic house (1908).

idea of the city as well. In particular, this feature is well represented in a painting dated 1755, by João Glama Strobërle (1708-1792) and entitled Allegory of the 1755 Earthquake [fig. 4a & 4b]. The scene is strongly characterized in a symbolic sense. The space in which the subjects are located is delimited on three sides by three facades which are the only elements of the city that keep themselves intact after the earthquake; everything else is disintegrated. In particular, it is the facade on the right of the painting that appears complete in all its parts, from the base to the cornice at the top. But it stands in total isolation from the remaining part of the building which is (presumably) collapsed. Its heroic resistance is not accidental: it symbolizes the resistance of the idea of the city.

urban imagery, it is strong: it is the key symbol of the urban space [fig. 5]. This duplicity, or contradiction, can be related to a concept coined by the philosopher Gilles Deleuze (1925-1995), namely: the “Surface Effect”. Referring to linguistics, in his books entitled Logique du sens (1969), Deleuze argues that propositions avoid a unique (shared) meaning. The use we make of propositions clearly shows us that their senses are multiple according to the purpose and context in which the proposition finds itself. Hence, since propositions do not necessarily require a reference to their presumed metaphysical origin by those who pronounce them, their meaning ends up being finally produced on the ‘surface’, namely in the act of speaking or reading. The meaning results from a chain of effects that occurs in the use of words. It does not precede them but follows, as an effect, causes that are outside of their a-priori meaning. And the facade of the “Casa Baraccata” is all the way similar: it is a façade, ok! But it is paradoxical because its

Actually, the facade embodies a contradiction. From a physical-mechanical point of view it is weak, since it is destined to be temporary; on the contrary, from the symbolic perspective of

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sense is multiple. If considered from a structural point of view, the sense of the facade stands in its condition of being the first element to collapse in the event of an earthquake. From a symbolic point of view, the facade is, instead, the element that provides an overall sense to the urban environment, perhaps more than any other element of the building can provide. So, it is the first element to resist. Nevertheless, one sense of the façade cannot be isolated from the other. In order to be symbolically relevant at one point it is supposed to fall down and being rebuilt. Thus, the facade is both senses at once. So, is the facade a fiction? Yes. But fiction of what? Shortly, we can say that the “Casa Baraccata” is a fiction of permanence. Despite its destruction, the facade is able to keep intact the symbolic system of the city. And symbolic permanence has nothing to do with physical solidity, or more precisely with Vitruvius’ concept of firmitas. In a way, the firmitas does not concern the façade but the wooden frame hidden within the walls. However, it can also be said that the facade is ultimately a simulacrum of the constitutive act of the city. For this reason, it is able to attenuate the fear of death and disintegration suggested by the earthquake and express the permanence of city. For these reasons, the façade of the “Casa Baraccata” is certainly in contrast with the principle of structural sincerity supported by the modern avant-garde. In order to be truly modern, the “Casa Baraccata” had no need of a façade and show outside the wooden frame. And this would have been a scenario not far from being real if, in 1908, Le Corbusier’s design proposal for a part

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(7a & 7b) The seismograph and the seismoscope. From an article by P.G. Alfani on “Natura e Arte” (1908).

of the city on the banks of the Strait of Messina would have been successful (see Barucci 1990, 9). But if his “Maison Dom-Ino” could appear perfectly adequate in the phase of emergency – as it was economic, quick to implement and mathematically enhanced by the performances of reinforced concrete – it also ran the risk of petrifying the feeling of precarity felt with aguish by the inhabitants of the Strait as it happened in the aftermath of L’Aquila’s earthquake in 2009; but this is a story we’ll go through in the final part of this essay... At the beginning of the twentieth century the “Casa Baraccata” encounters a phase of weakening. Patents of anti-seismic buildings and new structural models, inspired to Far East wooden typologies, put into crisis the symbolic relationship that joins the facade and the idea of the city. The facade is replaced by multiple

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(8) Diagrams of the earthquake in the Strait of Messina (1908) and Central Italy (1909) in comparison, made by the Ferrara Observatory.

wrapping solutions inspired by Japanese constructions. In an article entitled Come si deve costruire contro il terremoto (eng. How to build against the earthquake; 1908), Marco Aurelio Boldi shows several solutions inspired by the Japanese wooden house, and how they can be integrated with concrete and steel stiffening elements [fig. 6b]. Moreover, he previews how an upcoming Messina street could be; at first glance, it appears like a village made of wooden huts [fig. 6a]. More like a camp than a city, it looks like a perfect depiction of pure nomadology. Conversely, Vivenzio’s “Casa Baraccata” displays precariousness in a different way featuring fiction by means of the façade. It displays nomadism as a territorial condition that people of the Strait are supposed to coexist with. It is a deliberate choice

of “Sedentary Nomadology”. Being nomads, as the philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari describe it, is a condition that differs from the migrant: while the migrant leaves an environment that has become amorphous or ungrateful, the nomad is the one who does not leave, who does not want to leave, who attaches himself to that smooth space [...] and invents nomadism as a response to this challenge (452). And, for the people of the Strait, the invention nomadism coincides with the invention of the “Casa Baraccata”.

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Robustness and Earthquake-proof Baroque So far, it has been acknowledged that “Casa Baraccata” is an expression of empathy. Namely: empathy towards the city as a symbolic form. Henceforth, the anti-seismic building is observed from the point of view of abstraction. Abstraction is an orientation undertaken by architects engaged with earthquake resistant buildings (and more generally by the avantgarde), at the beginning of the twentieth century. The dichotomy empathy / abstraction refers to a famous book written by Wilhelm Worringer (1881-1965) and published in 1908. Surprisingly, the same year of the Messina earthquake. Worringer attempts at overcoming the art theory formulated by his predecessor, Theodor Lipps (1851-1914), entirely focused on the primacy of empathy. According to Worringer: the theory of empathy often leaves us lost in the face of the artistic creations of many eras and many peoples [...] for example that vast complex of works of art that go beyond the restricted area of Greco-Roman art and the modern western one (Worringer 1908, 8). But what does Worringer mean by ‘empathy’? He means: the sense of happiness that is given to us by the reproduction of an organically beautiful vital phenomenon [or] objectified enjoyment of ourselves (17). Thus, he considers as expression of empathy those phenomena like the canons of antiquity or the Renaissance (17). Namely, classical canons reproduced through the facade of the “Casa Baraccata” which works as a symbol of the city, therefore, in more general terms, as the mirror of the social and political nature of

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the city inhabitants. Opposite to the concept of ‘empathy’ is ‘abstraction’. The psychic impulse of abstraction [...] is the consequence of a great inner restlessness experienced by man [which] we can describe as an immense spiritual agoraphobia (20). An example? For Worringer: the dead form of the pyramid (18). The psychic impulse of abstraction produces a convergence between forms of architecture of very different eras. All these share a common empirical approach to the terrestrial form. As Worringer claims, the impulse of abstraction implies the primacy of the tactile over the visual. Namely, in the act of producing a furrow, or an excavation. And such gestures are embryos of technological tools employed at the beginning of the nineteenth century in seismology: the seismograph and the seismoscope [fig. 7a & 7b]. Metaphorically speaking, the seismograph works like a ‘Rhizomatic Eye’ (a device grafted in the earth like a rhizome) therefore, in quite the opposite way than Leon Battista Alberti’s ‘Winged Eye’. In an article he dedicates to the seismograph, dated 1908, P.G. Alfani surprisingly evokes this affinity of the ‘Eye’: just as the astronomer has his telescope, so the seismologist has his device, called seismograph (Alfani 1908, 427). Images of seismographs occur frequently in the technical handbooks published since the beginning of the century and show unprecedented figures of the terrestrial form [fig. 8]. Instead of reproducing the visible characters of landform, it reproduces the invisible ones, namely: its dynamics. However, the seismograph is just one among the tools through which seismology produces

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From the point of view of architecture, the gradual detachment from the symbolic domain of the city and the discovery of the earth depth opens up a new operative scenario. Architecture turns into a technical apparatus of investigation rather than a source of canons to be applied no matter where (i.e. classicism). And this is perhaps a crucial event for architecture that is not yet recognized as a true scientific achievement as Giancarlo Motta and Antonia Pizzigoni would state: an architecture that has lost its urban connotation becomes an operational tool towards the natural elements with which it enters into a relationship – Thus an architecture of the earth, of rivers, waters, mountains, islands or coasts, eventually replaces the city. (Motta & Pizzigoni 2006, 19).

(9) Repertoire of geological configurations represented by A. Pedrini (1910).

an innovative ‘image’ of the earth. Among these are: the Sternek pendulum, the Cavendish torsion balance, the Eotwos torsion balance; all tools dedicated to the geological analysis of the underground world mentioned in the chapter on earthquake-proof construction by Antonio Pedrini in his architectural handbooks (Pedrini 1910, 489). It is in fact on the basis of an accurate underground inspection that the terrestrial form is finally represented as a dynamic space; a space in motion due to invisible forces.

Such a paradigm shift is also the result of an innovation that occurs in building materials and, in particular, with the broad employment of reinforced concrete. This condition can certainly be extended to the entire evolutionary span of modern architecture, but it has particular importance in the context of anti-seismic buildings. Earthquake resistance passes through the search for plastic forms made possible by the plasticity of concrete itself. And such forms are in antithesis with the urban ones, and characterized by isolated, and often monumental, monolithic appearance that results of precise mathematical calculations. Reinforced concrete suddenly appears as a suitable material in order to ground a new architecture. It is therefore no coincidence that it is the magazine Il cemento (eng. Concrete), published since 1904, that makes specific insights

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which will be described in the following part of this essay. They are: La casa antisismica (eng. The anti-seismic house) (1909) by Giuseppe Torres (1882-1935) and La casa dell’avvenire (eng. The house of the future) (1910) by Antonio Pedrini. Between the two, especially Pedrini frames the issue of earthquake-proof construction in a broader framework of architect’s competences, and yet, the chapter dedicated to this theme takes on absolute centrality. It occupies almost one third of the handbook (precisely 293 pages out of a total of 917). This imbalance can be interpreted in different ways. In addition to being perceived as an urgent technical problem, antiseismic construction seems to also represent an opportunity to establish a new epistemology of architecture.

(10) Representation of sedimentary layers made by J. J. Scheuchzer (early XVIII century).

on the subject of earthquake architecture. The plurality of scientific contributions on the subject of anti-seismic construction flows into a dense network of technical publications starting from 1908. However, the hypothesis that antiseismic construction can be understood as a new architecture, with innovative criteria compared to those of traditional architecture, is assumed by a minimal part of the contributors. The majority focuses on technology, leaving out the domain of architectural design. Among the minority it should be mentioned at least two handbooks

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In Pedrini’s handbook, geological knowledge appears as one of the necessary prerequisites for architectural design. Today we might take it for granted. But that was not so obvious at Pedrini’s time as well as for architectural theorists who anticipate him, of course. For example, it is known that in De Re Aedificatoria (1450), Leon Battista Alberti pays particular attention to the choice of site and the type of soil capable of guaranteeing stability to the building. For Alberti, knowledge of the soil is therefore important, indeed we could say decisive, but it is limited to the surface. In the first paragraphs of the third book dedicated to construction, Alberti states that the following will serve to indicate whether the ground will be suitable: weeds that normally grow in damp places should not be present; the ground should bear either no trees at all or only

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the level of the riverbed (Alberti 1988, 81). For Alberti, the knowledge of a soil passes through the recognition of superficial signs that present themselves as clues to depth. In this sense, his argument participates in the episteme of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, as it is argued by Michel Foucault (Foucault 1969).

(11) Sketches of technical solutions to build on the slope in a seismic area. From Pedrini (1910).

those that grow in extremely hard, compact earth; all around, everything should be quite arid and dry, and if stony, the stone should not be small and round, but hard and sharp, preferably flint; there should be no springs or underground streams beneath, for it is the nature of the stream to plunder and deposit matter continually; for this reason solid ground will not be reached on a plain or by a river until you have dug below

Against this superficial knowledge, Pedrini attempts a profound knowledge that engages the section of the earth’s crust. Scientific research started at the end of the eighteenth century, already showed that the earth’s crust is a stratified space, of which, the most superficial layer, namely the one that physically host buildings, is only a minimal part. Hence, Pedrini translates stratigraphic analysis into a long list of ‘geological typologies’ which, seen as a whole, appear like a provisional atlas of “Terrestrial Architectures” [fig. 9]. But the most interesting feature that comes out of this classification of these “Terrestrial Architectures” is their variable extension. While Alberti bound his analyses within an area that approximately corresponds with a town, Pedrini demonstrates that homogeneous layers might concern even entire regions, thus settlements located at a considerable distance. Therefore, geological cartography displays a conflict with political cartography: a conflict between the logic of the earth’s depth, dominated by purely physical laws, and the logic of the surface, characterized instead by the primacy of the social and symbolic dimension. Thus, boundaries of the political world and the physical world do not match. In particular, the concept of tectonics stands

ANDREA ALBERTO DUTTO

(12) Nuraghe. From Chambers Encyclopedia (1868).

(13) Top: Plan of the anti-seismic building with circular perimeter walls. Below: Plan of the anti-seismic building with straight perimeter walls and circular rooms. From Pedrini (1910).

at the convergence between architecture and geology. Tectonics in architecture means a way to express the constructive logic embodied in the composition of building elements. From the point of view of what it has been defined as “Terrestrial Architecture”, tectonics is the expression of how layers are arranged either horizontally or obliquely. Foreshadowed by studies carried out in the eighteenth century by scholars like Antonio Vallisnieri (1661-1730) and Antonio Lazzaro Moro (1687-1764), the faults, folds, clods are just some of the elements with which such “Terrestrial Architecture” is eventually translated into rational (therefore

intelligible) representations [fig. 10]. And perhaps, it is this tectonic logic that allows the transition of knowledge between geology and architecture. And from geology to seismology, it is required a transition from ‘Tectonic’ towards ‘Telluric’, namely the acknowledgement that layers are dynamic entities. A transition on which bears the works on anti-seismic construction of scholars like Pedrini, for instance.

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Such a broad overview on tectonics and telluric has effect on architectural design. Several schematic figures exemplify technical solutions aimed at relating the earth’s crust to the building.

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(14) Variants of anti-seismic single-family houses plans. From Pedrini (1910).

(15) Plan of an anti-seismic collective building. From Pedrini (1910).

Pedrini considers, in particular, the situation of inclined terrain as a problematic case study where the soil slides on other sublayers because of gravity. Thus, he proposes a solution whose naivety may surprise us nowadays. Either by building a wall and interrupting the superficial layer or building a wall at the foot of the house in order to stop the soil from sliding. However, such examples he shows are useful for at least one reason that can be inferred from the comparison between the size of the building and the size of the wall that works as technical remedy to the sliding effect. The size of the building is roughly the same of the wall. This naïve outcome might

be an effect of the sketch, but it is its reproduction in four different sketches that suggests a kind of curiosity [fig. 11]. In the first case we see a wall upstream that allows the house to rest on the rocky layer; in the second case, an embankment downstream limits the layer from sliding down; in the third case, an excavation full of stones acts as a drainage, limiting this time the sliding of the clay; in the fourth case, a drainage element is placed alongside the house. What these sketches might suggest is that, from the perspective of Pedrini, the leap in scale required for architecture to confront with the terrestrial form implies and enlargement: a growth of scale that surprisingly

ANDREA ALBERTO DUTTO

(16) Geometric operations on the division of the circle. From Pedrini (1910).

reconciles an approach to building that is both modern and archaic. The reference to archaic construction in fact underlies an anthropological concern that persists even in the present. For Pedrini the circular shape represents an attempt of archaic civilizations to confer permanence to their buildings and monuments. And this employment of circular plan radically differs from the Renaissance when the circle, and the circular buildings, symbolically represents the idea of perfection (therefore: beauty). Avoiding issues of beauty and symbolism, Pedrini is pretty straightforward and looks at the circular shape as an expression of firmitas: one that responds best to the hard tests and demonstrates keep unharmed as shown by monuments that in various parts of Italy have challenged the most violent earthquakes (615). Among these he lists the Pantheon, the tomb of Cecilia Metella on the Via Appia, the Mole Adriana, the Colosseum,

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(17) Variants of anti-seismic staircases. From Pedrini (1910).

the Roman amphitheatre in Pula as monuments that crossed the centuries and kept unscathed in respect of earthquakes (616)…not because of their aesthetical beauty but because of their ontological robustness. At the conclusion of a brief description of these references from the Roman era, Pedrini takes a further step back in history: among the megalithic constructions of the Bronze Age and the Neolithic age - the oldest monuments raised by the hand of man - are the British dolmens, the menhir, and also the nuraghe of Sardinia (617). He then continues with an example: due to an earthquake dating back to time immemorial, one of these nuraghes with a diameter of 11m

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(18) Anti-seismic technological details. From Pedrini (1910).

at the base was overturned to the ground, detaching itself from the foundations at ground level. [...] Then, for centuries, it hosted families of shepherds that set their home and stable for their animals (617). The point is clear: the nuraghe is not symbolic buildings but a dwelling which circular shape is the empirical result of a resistance against the stresses transmitted by the depths of the earth’s crust [fig. 12]. And with this example the short historical overview provided by the handbook eventually ends. And this ending sound like if the nuraghe is the final achievement of a strenuous excavation into history, in order to establish the possibility for a true foundation of earthquake-proof architecture at the bottom; namely: at the roots of the history of architecture. However, circular-shaped architecture has not enjoyed particular fortune. Actually, this historical fact is the source of Pedrini’s regret towards his predecessors. So far, the engineer asked himself

about how buildings can resist efforts produced by the weight of building materials, the strength of the wind, the weight of the floors, [...]. So far, this was natural and sufficient because afforded by the solidity of the soil. But today this concept must be abandoned when it comes to building in a seismic zone (Pedrini 1910, 619). His accusation is directed against his contemporaries or immediate predecessors: against engineers who, convinced of their methods of structural calculation, omitted to consider the dynamic force that spreads from the earth’s depth towards the surface. For Pedrini, the building constitutes a single organism together with the site on which it is rooted. And its shape, in addition to reacting to internal tensions, is also the result of external tensions. Therefore, he continues: in order to build a house whose parts are suitable for resisting both compression and tension efforts, transmitted by a jerky and vibrating ground, the

ANDREA ALBERTO DUTTO

(19) Plans of anti-seismic buildings. From Torres (1909).

structure must be a non-deformable and relatively elastic system (619). From this it comes that the plan of the antiseismic building is supposed to be circular, or polygonal. For Pedrini, this configuration can appear in two variants [fig. 13]. The first variant concerns plans with circular and polygonal perimeter walls (619). The second variant is the one of plans with straight perimeter walls and circular or polygonal internal spaces (619). Then, examples of building plans derived from these two basic configurations are displayed [fig. 14]. In the ring configuration (see 326) the main rooms of the house are placed at the center while service rooms are arranged along the circular perimeter; alternatively, small circular rooms are arranged along a polygonal perimeter (see 328)

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or assembled into a lobed overall figure (see 327). In addition to these examples dedicated to the typology of the single-family house, Pedrini also shows two examples of collective houses [fig. 15]. These are presented as regular shapes that are internally subdivided in order to host several rooms (see 329-330). Shortly, Pedrini reduces architectural composition to a list of geometric operations related to the subdivision of the circle (see 654-655) [fig. 16]. Indeed, all the elements of the building, from the stairs to the construction details and the technological nodes, are subjected to the tyranny of the circle. Stairs are conceived as structurally autonomous organisms both in the variant of circular walls and that of circular core dug inside a square shape [fig. 17]. Similarly, technological

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mass produced furnitures (331-332). Thus, the vital function of the anti-seismic building is only evoked but not fulfilled. And it ends up being resolved in its opposite; namely: the tomb. As for the buildings of the archaic era, also the antiseismic building presents itself as an abstract expression therefore as a deliberate renounce to display architecture as an objectified expression of man self-enjoyment. But an earthquakeproof tomb is already a good achievement in the domain of abstraction. It is almost alright! (20) View of the seismic city imagined by G. Torres (1909).

nodes and devices aimed at bridging wall discontinuity are represented by circular profiles (see 714-715) [fig. 18]. Nevertheless, what at first glance seems to be a baroque ornament of the building is everything but ornamental. Let’s call it: “Earthquake-proof Baroque” The combinatorics of circular figures and the geometric division of the circle are not, however, free from contradictions. In describing his examples, Pedrini strives to demonstrate the functionality of these spaces, specifying the destination of each room according to its position within the overall arrangement. However, this functionality remains only hinted since furnishing these spaces featuring curvilinear or polygonal geometries, would actually require excessive customization compared to the availability of

Another pioneer of anti-seismic architecture is Giuseppe Torres (1872-1935), an Italian architect and exponent of the eclectic style. His book entitled La casa antisismica (eng. Earthquake-proof building, 1909) is not simply a technical handbook, but rather an attempt to provide ant seismic architecture with a new language. Like Pedrini, Torres focuses on the possibilities embedded in the circular shape, and his experiments will later result in a patent. In particular, the cylinder is investigated because of its capacity to physically produce a ‘whole’, namely a unitary architectural organism. The cylinders will have to form the whole building and will always have in their point of cohesion the thickness in common, resulting from the intersection of the circles, so as to form a whole in their overall mass (Torres 1909, 18). And with this statement Torres apparently winks at Vitruvius’ firmitas. However, it is not simply a matter of firmitas but also of utilitas… and venustas.

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Utilitas is certainly close to the rhetoric of the avant-garde and Torres attempts at persuading the reader about the usefulness (or functionality) of his buildings. However, his position arises in open controversy with the widespread use of rectangular shapes, that is both supported by mass-productions fans and traditionalists. In a way, he seemingly struggles tradition, and in this sense, he is truly modernist, but unlike orthodox modernists that aim at deducing the form from functions, Torres starts from the form (the pure form) and eventually deduces the functions. He starts from the circle, that, in his view, is a psychologically gratifying geometry. His argument is pretty psychologistic: life, in a circular or polygonal environment, will offer singular attractions and satisfactions. It will be a more intimate and allow more intense life, warmed by the domestic functions of the environment (Torres 1909, 24). And the circle immediately unveils shortcomings of traditional buildings, like the useless and sharp corners of the rooms (24). At the same time, he insists on the vital expressions allowed by the circular plan; the walls, equidistant from the centre, gather, in their symmetrical winding, things and people (24). In support of his claim of rationality, Torres even elaborates on hygiene issues: the circular construction [...] facilitates the circulation of air and receives light from all directions and the different inclinations of the sun in all seasons (25). For Torres there seems to be no difference between plan and diagram. In a way, his plans remind of Klaus Herdeg “Decorated Diagrams” (see Herdeg 1983). And historically, Torres’ plan

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anticipate an approach to the analysis of building distribution undertaken through diagrams, by authors in the 30s like Giuseppe Vaccaro (see Dutto 2018). At stake in Torres’ handbooks are multiple types of buildings like: banks, palaces, stately homes, theatres, worker houses, singlefamily houses, civil houses, churches, ... [fig. 19] And despite the variable level of complexity of this typological repertoire, at skate is only one methodology. This methodology implies the identification of a hierarchy of functional items, of which the most distributive one is placed at the center of the diagram, while the others are all around the perimeter. Thus, at the center we find, for instance, the staircase, or sometimes a corridor; instead, the rooms are placed on the perimeter. In other cases, like the church or the theatre, the central item is also the most representative function of the building: the hall. The rationality of this compositional logic is then accentuated from the point of view of comfort, since, says Torres: with the interstices that result between the planimetric inscriptions of the circular floors, there is a way to provide the house with a considerable number of service rooms like toilets, washrooms, changing rooms, wardrobes, ... (25) – spaces that are only apparently residual but that, actually, express the modern way of living. In addition to firmitas and utilitas, Torres provides insights on venustas. For practical reasons, the façade of his anti-seismic building is independent from the structure; in order to avoid resistance imbalances, the ornaments must be made of a lighter and weaker material than concrete and

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will be placed in such a way as to remain statically independent of the main mass of the building (Torres 1909, 23) However, differently from the “Casa Baraccata”, this time the facade does not have a symbolic meaning. The facade has a purely ornamental function inspired by contextual contingencies. In the case of the reconstruction of Messina, ornaments are: the superb clay of Sicily and the glazed majolica, as well as stucco used in modern decorative technique (23). And, similar ornamental suggestions are applied to the roof of the building which is actually intended to be a dome composed of circles arranged side by side. The dome reproduces the circular abstraction of the plan and presents itself as an aesthetic representation of the anti-seismic building as a Gesamtkunstwerk, namely a ‘total’ work of art and architecture. Torres provides also a representation of an ideal city made of anti-seismic buildings. Such city shows a turreted profile with references to the eclectic neo-Moorish style [fig. 20]. We must not forget that, despite his functionalist approach, Torres was a representative of the late eclectic style. And his search for a stylistics unity, and more generally for a totalization of space, put his ideal city within the domain of utopia, understood as an entity whose existence is prefigured entirely in the mind of the architect. If it is not utopia then it is an exercise of style. Actually, it can be both an exercise of vision and of style. It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. In the two variants here presented, both of Pedrini’s and Torres’, the anti-seismic building is

set to prefigure a new architecture. Such choice is conveyed both by scientific and political implications. And in order to address the political, it comes pretty useful Carl Schmitt’s concept of nomos. For Schmitt, earth telluric constitutes the anthropological foundation of the subject. This is the nomos. And such concept is crucial within a seismic area where the idea of localization, building, dwelling and, more generally, the aim to provide such area with a permanent order (an Ordnung) is continuously negotiated between inhabitants and earth. Architecture at the (epi)centre The two cases scenario of anti-seismic building presented in this essay constitute the main approaches proposed by architects at the beginning of the twentieth century. On the one hand, it happens that models from previous centuries are recovered. Such is the case of the “Casa Baraccata”, a weak structural form that features a symbolic legacy of the city. On the other hand, is a new way of making architecture, a more scientific one, featuring the primacy of robustness over symbolic choices. The main difference between the two modes of intervention has been identified in the dichotomy: empathy / abstraction. The search for empathy is in fact characteristics of the “Casa Baraccata” and its capacity to symbolically reproduce the relationship that ties humans and dwellings. Conversely, abstraction features an architectural experimentation that aims at countering the telluric by means of a scientific investigation of

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the terrestrial form and the potentialities of new solid way of making earthquake-proof buildings. Empathy and abstraction mirrors themselves with an anthropological divergence. The settlement form of the “Casa Baraccata” implies, in fact, the precariousness of the settlement, namely a form of nomadism felt as a permanent condition. On the contrary, the new architecture that presents itself as earthquake-proof does not clearly outline a new settlement but has the ambition to present itself as suitable for the making of a sedentary dwelling. It is evident that the two positions are not as clearly divided as this essay seemingly suggests. However, what this essay wants to stress is the centrality of architecture in the domain of seismic areas. In addition to dead people and tears of acquaintances, building ruins are what remains in the aftermath of the earthquake. And because of its destruction, architecture is able to express a relationship with the earth’s depth, often perceived as source of an ancestral fear. Architecture is at the centre of the recent events that affected the reconstruction of L’Aquila, a city in the Italian region of Abruzzo, badly damaged by the earthquake of April 6, 2009. In addition to the hundreds of victims and injured people, building damages were estimated around 10 billion EUR. In a recent article published in the Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, Jan-Jonathan Bock highlighted the gradual disengagement of the Italian state in the reconstruction phase (see Bock 2016). For Bock, the promise to rebuild the historic centre

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was at first mitigated by the urgent construction of new anti-seismic buildings and, subsequently, forgotten: survivors identified state governance as the arbiter that had turned a situation of momentary despair into enduring hopelessness, with community life being ripped apart by envy, isolation, and fear of the future (76). In fact, this anthropological condition appears to be marked by an existential void on the side of local population which feeds on a feeling of compassion. Anti-seismic architecture is architecture applied to the logic of depth. Deep enough to allow inhabitants to make roots. And it is starting from the achievement of such ‘deep territoriality’ that architecture can once again claim a cultural and, ultimately, a political agenda.

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Bibliography Alberti, L. B. (1988). On the Art of Building in Ten Books. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Alfani, P. G. (1908). I sismografi. Natura ed Arte, XVIII (5-6), 427-430. Barucci, C. (1990). La casa antisismica, prototipi e brevetti: materiali per una storia delle tecniche e del cantiere. Roma: Gangemi. Bock, J.J. (2016). The second earthquake: how the Italian state generated hope and uncertainty in post-disaster L’Aquila. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 23 (1), 61-80. Boldi, M. A. (1908). Come si deve costruire contro il terremoto. Natura ed Arte, XVIII (5-6), 448-452. Coen, D. R. (2012). The Earthquake Observers: Disaster Science from Lisbon to Richter. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Deleuze, G. (1969). Logique du sens. Paris: Les éditions de Minuit. Deleuze, G. & Guattari, F. (1987). A thousand plateaus: capitalism and schizophrenia. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Dutto, A.A. (2018). Polarize. In A.A. Dutto, The legacy of handbooks: the paradigm of distribution in architectural design (138-175). Bergamo: Tecnograph. Foucault, M. (1969). Les mots et les choses : une archéologie des sciences humaines. Paris: Gallimard. Herdeg, K. (1983). The decorated diagram: Harvard architecture and the Failure of the Bauhaus Legacy. Cambridge: MIT. Humboldt, A. von (1814). Personal narrative of travels to the equinoctial regions of the New continent during the years 1799-1804. London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown. Motta, G. & Pizzigoni, A. (2006). Architetture della Terra. In G. Motta et al., L’architettura delle acque e della terra (9-95). Milano: Franco Angeli. Palma, R. (2019). Che l’architettura sia considerabile uno strato della crosta terrestre. In G. Peghin (ed.), L’Architettura delle Miniere: paesaggio, suolo, sottosuolo, terra (92-101). Melfi: Libria. Pedrini, A. (1910). La casa dell’avvenire. Milano: Hoepli. Schmitt, C. (1950). Der Nomos der Erde im Völkerrecht des Jus Publikum Europaeum. Köln: Greven Verlag. Torres, G. (1909). La casa antisismica. Roma: Cooperativa tipografica Manuzio. Worringer, W. (1908). Abstraktion und Einfühlung. München: R. Piper & Co. Verlag.

050 052 054 056 058 Ashley Ball

Earth Structures of a Portuguese Farm Store & Archive is a small design studio based in London, UK, run by maker and designer Ashley Ball. Created by an inherent need to make, Store & Archive works across disciplines such as art, architecture, design, film, and the peripheries. It is a studio committed to documenting and exploring the everyday. Our investigations are focused on simple structures or modifications using standard building elements - detailed well. We are interested in small structures, exhibition design or additions which are crafted by hand, one project at a time. The current focus of the studio is the renovation of a small ruin in rural Portugal, named Casa de Campo. It is an opportunity to establish our own design process, allowing us to work with local Portuguese craftsmen but also to design and fabricate our own furniture for the project in our London workshop.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

ASHLEY BALL

Set within a cork and eucalyptus forest, a humble small stone and mud structure stands solitary within the rural Portuguese landscape. It is a snapshot of rural living. A neglected structure was slowly deteriorating over time, humbly standing for 80 years and disowned for 30. This long-term renovation project, which is currently being undertaken by UK based design studio Store & Archive, looks at a repurpose that is both sensitive and contextual. It is not just about the small ruin itself but the entire land and the reinterpretation of the whole. It is the presence of soil that is the predominant material connection that ties built form with the landscape. The renovation itself proposes to form a response to the origins of simple rural Portuguese structures, built with local stone and laid by hand. Additional elements, built over time, will consequently respond to the act of building by hand and using simple building solutions. It is the intention to gradually build different types of soil formations across the landscape over time, expanding on the existing conditions, whether that is through boundary walls, house walls, retaining landscape walls, seating, plantation divisions, irrigation mounds, and so on. The key approach is not to fully design the entirety and then build it in relation to a predestined set of drawings, but instead, the principle is to design and build one element at a time - while responding to the built process by allowing each additional element to inform the next; a continual approach

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negotiating between ‘build’ and ‘response.’ There is an innate connection between the materiality of soil, land as soil, and soil as a crafted process. It is the intention of Store & Archive to reimagine the role of a designer, craftsman, and architect within sensitive rural building projects. It is proposed to not solely work directly from drawings but rather to create a dialogue between skilled craftsmen and an architectural desire of the atmospheric qualities intended for space. There is a loose negotiation where structure and material tests will be made and responded to, and perhaps the drawings come after construction. As a process, we are interested in harnessing the way that things are made and believe that there needs to be less rigidity in the overall design and construction process in order to account for the way information is conversed or translated, interpretation of drawings, and openness of experimentation. Drawings do not always allow room for the live adjustments that the tactile construction environment inherently occupies. This is partially similar to the building process of Bijoy Jain from Studio Mumbai, where drawings are often created based on the final build form, meaning that the design and construction process becomes an interchange between live exchange and live adjustment. The existing primary structure on the land at Casa de Campo shows signs of ‘Taipa,’ which in this case is a combined laborious construction process built by hand. It combines stone and mud directly from the land in order to form a raw yet solid thick wall. This seems like the simplest form of building, yet it is one of the

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Figure 1. Casa de Campo

most common forms of building worldwide. It is estimated that around 30% of the world’s houses are categorized as ‘earth’ or ‘mud’ houses, often employing the same technique, perhaps in slightly different versions, but each is connected through the primary principle of using soil as a structural form. Through a building study of observation, categorization, and documentation, this overview paper explores the poetic nature of soil as a building system, a system that creates remnants

across an ever-changing and overgrowing landscape, and offers an alternative appreciation to the overlooked language of mainstream Portuguese rural aesthetic. Natural Boundaries The visual appearance of rammed earth structures, or ‘Taipa’ in Portuguese, forms a boundary between landscape and form, a physical boundary, and equally a visual continuity. There becomes indistinguishability between what is land

ASHLEY BALL

and what is wall. An initial study was undertaken by the design team to document the existing landscape and what it offered. Underneath the overgrown wheat fields and berry bushes, there are remnants of how the land once functioned and clues to how the land was intended for use. Like an archaeology project, the team spent two separate visits in 2019 trying to track and trace the existing landscape for boundaries; boundaries of the extremities which demarcate ownership but also internal boundaries to subdivide and negotiate the site. Earth walls are particularly evident in the existing lost walls that divide land boundaries, subtle histories indicating what once was. Built by hand, they partially stand within the landscape, some broken down until eventually, they meet ground level. Visually the wall territories sometimes merge into the land itself or the dirt road, in a colorful formation that bleeds into one another. It is interesting to note that along the dirt track road that cuts through different land ownerships, there is a continual shifting in coloration, not dissimilar to a scene from the intense redness of Siena. Natural earth pigment is an important reference point for the redesign of the existing habitable ruin. At which point, this division is that of land or wall becomes negotiable and inconsistent. What is consistent, however, is the continuation of the rawness of soil in multiple forms and fragments. Soil as dust particles, soil overturned as landscape preparations begin, soil as a hardened mound of wall. As a material, it is unobtrusive, honest, and

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raw. Imperfections in the compressed structures have a multitude of variations depending on the aggregate used. Larger aggregate may withstand the compression process and fall away, leaving fragments of wall as a disintegrated facade. There are, however, fragments across the land which are not in line with this natural condition of the soil. Currently, there are moments of barbed wire as a deterrent on the land, a harsh and unnecessary addition added by the previous occupant, Senhor Anibal, to prevent access of livestock onto the land. Over the coming year, this will be removed and replaced with natural divisions of soil masses as and when required, an ongoing process in response to what is appropriate for the reinterpreted use of the site. Natural boundary examples are in surplus throughout history with references such as fortresses with divisions of water, or low lying bushes curated in a formation to prevent practical access. Local Vernacular Historically rural farm structures are humble small dwellings often on the edge of a plot of land, often resulting in two neighboring dwellings adjacent to one another, each with a vast amount of land projecting outwards in opposing directions. Over centuries land has been subdivided and categorized into five different categories: Reserve Ecological, Rustic, Agro-Florestal, Urban, and Commercial. These define what habitable or commercial activities are

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Figure 2. Existing Location

allowed to be implemented on the site. The site at Casa de Campo is subdivided into three: Reserve Ecological, Rustic, and Urban. The existing ruin is located on Reserve Ecological, meaning that no additions can be made to the existing extents of the ruin. These restrictions naturally direct the resulting proposal into a restoration project without extension in any form. It is important to note that land categories are very strict. More recently, however, land divisions have been prevented, opting for land joining principles instead. This encourages centuries worth of land subdivision to slowly be reconnected and owned by one person in the hope of maintaining and protecting the historical integrity of the country.

In November 2019, the design team spent four days documenting in medium format photography the local vernacular and neglected structure that occupies most of the countryside. Namely, this consisted of driving and observing, then stopping to explore and categorize. There are a plethora of neglected structures in the Alentejo region that act as accessible documentation into the way in which built structures used to be, with no status or ego, simply built as honest, practical formations. The expression of rammed earth was particularly visible in all of the neglected structures documented, and this is a result of the external renders starting to deteriorate in order to expose

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Figure 3. Evidence of Lost Rammed Earth Walls

the inner earth and stone structure. Obviously, when exposed to the natural elements, these inner walls begin to crumble away as they were not built to celebrate being exposed to the elements. Naturally, if these were reformed with the intention of being exposed walls, the addition of technology today would mean that a freestanding rammed earth wall could accommodate the range of weather and temperatures as the material composition would include a percentage of a cement mix to strengthen the structure. Although the discovered structures are idyllic in style, they are certainly not practical from a structural point of view, and the exposure to weather currently makes it easy for walls to crack. As described, these structures were not designed to expose earth as an architectural expression, so they are not particularly designed for this

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purpose. Generally, a thick cement render is applied to the internal and external walls and then painted in white. The notion of painting the structures white is, of course, something as a design team we are interested in challenging. This is a predetermined architectural style generally unchallenged with the local planning officers who are known to be set in their ways and not open to reinterpretation. It is important to note that we intend to respect the tradition, but we are also interested in exploring or readdressing how these visually fit in the context comfortably. It is our position that houses or structures that are painted white stand out significantly from the landscape itself. A preferred option would be to use the immediate soil of the land to create a colored render from the land which is left as such. This way, the building will feel like

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Figure 4. Pigmented Render

it has come from the land; it is of the land. Within the local vicinity, a similar project has recently been completed, which uses rough cement render with pigment to form the walls and floor as one surface. Figure 4 shows the continuation of the surface that runs between the bedroom and shower room, with the cement composition of the floor also acting as a natural waterproof barrier. Although this final surface is not soil-based, it is our intention at Casa de Campo to devise a bespoke render that uses cement mixed with the direct soil of the

landscape – harnessing the natural coloration of the land – that will then be applied to the internal and external walls. This experimentation between using different types of soil structures is the combined principle. In time, there will be a separate third structure that will be purely exposed to rammed earth. Future Aims There is a continual fascination in the ability to use soil as a primary material for different uses.

ASHLEY BALL

Figure 5. Rear Ruin of Casa de Campo

Purely on a visual level, it is important to highlight the poetic notion of this. Where one structure merges into another type of soil-based structure, which in turn influences and informs the next, it is the most natural, organic building material there is and it is the aim of Store & Archive to promote this within rural Portugal, in the hope of overturning stagnant rules on whitewashing the external façade of small structures. To further contextualize the project, it may be fitting to conclude by mentioning an adjacent project to the site. Also set within close proximity is a newly created cooperative project named

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CLARA, which looks to reframe the notion of what it means to live in the rural countryside in a modern age. Can traditions be paired together with technology to create attractive new ways of living? The scheme looks at a collaborative approach between the whole spectrum of artisans, from film, performance artists, designers, etc. – allowing space to come together and work with the existing rural community in order to develop a discourse of reinterpretation. It is the hope that over the duration of the renovation at Casa de Campo, ideas can be exchanged using soil as a built medium. There is, of course, a longer-term ambition for the site at Casa de Campo of creating

EARTH STRUCTURES OF A PORTUGUESE FARM

an architectural summer school on the land where invited participants come together to design and build structures using soil in order to learn about the tradition of building in this form, but also to develop it into innovative new solutions.

60 62 64 66 68 70 72 Brian Kelly

SOIL / SILO Brian M. Kelly, AIA, is an NCARB-certified, licensed architect in the State of Nebraska and an associate professor in the College of Architecture at the University of Nebraska. Brian teaches studios at all levels of the curriculum ranging from design thinking in the introductory core to design research studios in the Master’s program and his teaching focus is in the areas of beginning design, design thinking, and architectural representation theory. His previous teaching experience includes Drury University’s Hammons School of Architecture in Springfield, MO and the California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo. His students’ work has been featured in academic journals, exhibited in galleries, and honored in international competitions. Brian’s research focus is broadly investigating the agency of authorship in the design process, specifically interrogating copyright and appropriation within software applications. In 2009, he co-founded ATOM as a design research collaborative focusing on small-scale investigations, of which several have won national design awards.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

BRIAN KELLY

Mid-Century Global Tensions In August of 1945, the global community witnessed an abrupt end to World War II with the use of atomic weapons by the American military as they dropped both uranium (“the Little Boy”) and plutonium (“the Fat Man”) bombs over the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, respectively. The technology that culminated in six years of fighting also created a new urgency to provide protection in the event that tensions were to escalate again. Warfare had changed considerably in the previous ten years, and the safety and security of the continental United States offered through an ocean barrier, and relative distance was no longer present. At the end of the war, German rocket scientists were captured by both American and Russian military. Dr. Wernher Von Braun, the leading figure in the development of German V2 rockets, was now in the custody of the United States, and remarkable progress was made in the design and deployment of rockets under his guidance in the 1950s.1 The USSR was making significant headway with “[...]the successful Soviet explosion of an atomic bomb in 1949, the Soviet detonation of a hydrogen bomb in 1953, and the launching of Sputnik in 1957 [...]”2 yet the United States had little progress to report during this strained time. These means of transit were initially conceived of by the German scientists as a way to deliver a bomb without the need for conventional aircraft; however, the newly minted NASA program sought to gain control over this vehicle as the Americans were losing

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the race to design and control rocket technology which would send a manned mission into space. The message to the general public was one of exploration and discovery, yet the reality was that a rocket able to carry a man into the atmosphere could also carry a payload of a nuclear warhead. The space race was not just a public relations contest to see who could get there first but also represented control in the growing Cold War. The Flyover States Increasing tension with the Soviet Union was most clearly seen where the friction was face to face in places such as Berlin. However, in 1961, President Kennedy’s address regarding escalating relations in the divided capital city emphasized that conditions were much more far-reaching than Germany itself. He stated, “The immediate threat to free men is in West Berlin. But that isolated outpost is not an isolated problem. The threat is worldwide.”3 As a result, the interior of the U.S. was soon to become the front lines of what seemed to be an imminent war as new forms of defense ushered in the Atlas program, arming the Midwestern prairie with the intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM). The deployment of an unprecedented form of defense in a new kind of war was not the first of large-scale, governmental, infrastructural projects to be positioned in a North-South orientation through the central states from the Dakotas to Texas, also known in present-day jargon as the flyover states. The Great Plains Shelterbelt project used linear windbreaks throughout

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the landscape to combat the Dust Bowl which ravaged agricultural terrain during the 1920s and ’30s.4 The abundant availability of land coupled with a workforce experiencing the height of a recession in the 1950s made this a perfect place for a new form of defense infrastructure; this time not against natural forces but rather threats from foreign adversaries. With President Kennedy’s statement, the urgency to complete the program was felt widely. Construction at multiple Midwestern missile bases moved forward at a considerable pace thanks to both large scale governmental programs and civilian contractors. The invitation to be part of defending their home soil was largely welcomed by the small Midwestern communities who now found themselves living with the prospect of a nuclear warhead virtually in their backyards. “To rural communities suffering through the 1958 recession and an unemployment crisis which hit agricultural and blue-collar workers disproportionately hard, the Atlas project was the shelter that allowed many households to weather the storm. As a result, these communities quickly came to associate the project with opportunity and growth. The jobs provided by Atlas offered full workdays, good pay, and a supportive job environment. As the rest of America struggled to recover from the 1958 recession-which had been the sharpest downturn of the generationNebraskans near Atlas bases were able to rebound quickly. Opportune timing shaped the perception of rural communities, who not only accepted the silos but ultimately embraced them.”5

Nebraska Underground The State of Nebraska had significant roles in the history of the American military in the 20th century due to its location within the contiguous United States. Operational during World War II, as well as both the Korean and Vietnam conflicts, three munitions plants located in Grand Island, Hastings, and Mead, provided critical supplies to the troops. The Hastings and Grand Island plants are positioned approximately one hour north of the geographical center of the U.S. This location was strategic as it was impossible for a WWII bomber to attack from the Pacific or Atlantic coast on a single tank of fuel, which provided safety through distance. Additionally, the Martin Bomber plant located at Offutt Air Force Base in Bellevue, NE, which produced both the Enola Gay and Bockscar B-29 Superfortress aircraft used to drop the two atomic weapons on Japan in 1945, also benefited from the safety provided by the location. Concealing wartime production from aerial reconnaissance was not necessary for contrast to the welldocumented tactics of the Lockheed plant in Burbank, CA, where a large overhead veil of camouflage presented the scene of a California suburb from above while production operations continued underneath.6 During the Cold War, civilian and business life also moved into action to be prepared. Although stashing food in underground shelters was normal procedure during this time and several homes were building their own fallout shelters,

BRIAN KELLY

J. Gordon Roberts, owner of Roberts Dairy in Omaha, NE, began considering the potential of stowing away not only the consumables but also the means of production. He built an experimental underground shelter in Elkhorn, NE, in 1963 and moved 30 dairy cows, one bull, and two human handlers from the University of Nebraska’s Dairy Science Department for testing. “Roberts proposed an experiment to the Office of Civil Defense in Washington, a two-week test to see how dairy cattle and their human handlers would survive the likely living conditions after a nuclear attack. Roberts would provide the cattle and the shelter; the feds would conduct the study.”7 Although building the shelter was preparation for and acknowledgment of the potential for the worst, Roberts, an opponent to nuclear war, included his own modest protest at the entrance to the underground facility stating: “War; Sacrifice for the USA; Suicide for the USSR; Nonsense for Everybody.” More recently, after the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon on September 11, 2001, President George W. Bush flew from Florida to Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana for a brief stop to address the nation, and then to Offutt Air Force Base’s underground facilities at the Strategic Air Command. The protection provided by its subterranean location offered the best security while assessing the situation and determining a course of action. “The president’s visit also solidified Offutt’s standing as one of the most important and strategically-located military installations in the nation.”8

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All of these programs and resulting facilities engaged the Nebraska soil to vary degrees from partially to completely submerged. The Hastings munitions bunkers from WWII were protected under a blanket of soil in the unlikely event of an explosion while the war room at the Strategic Air Command is buried underground at an undisclosed depth. The Atlas program was not an anomaly in the lineage of using the soil of the Midwestern countryside in the service of the military. Atlas in Nebraska In the latter portion of the 1950s, the United States military was moving forward with the design and testing of more powerful nuclear warheads while NASA was gaining control over predictably launching and guiding a rocket into space. The coupling of these two efforts was to eventually become the Atlas ICBM. The remaining component in this new form of defense was to identify a location to launch the rocket, which was secure yet offered the right trajectory for the approximately 5,000-mile journey it was destined to take.9 When the U.S. military was assessing optimal locations for placing these long-range missiles, the central states were seen as favorable. Air Force bases throughout this zone were to take on the responsibility of overseeing the missiles positioned within their proximity. (Figure 1) The presence of two United States Air Force bases, the Strategic Air Command, and plentiful amounts of open, albeit private, prairie surrounding them put Nebraska in prime consideration.

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(Figure 1) Location of Cold War Atlas missile silos in the United States (Image courtesy of author, created by University of Nebraska students Joseph Holtz and Ian Jones)

Nebraska had both Atlas-D and Atlas-F missiles located in the soil throughout the eastern portion of the state. A fleet of nine Atlas-D missiles was managed by Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha, and the 12 Atlas-F sites were controlled by Lincoln Air Force Base. (Figure 2) Differences between the two configurations were most notably in the orientation of the missile and the degree to which it was situated underground. Updates in the design of the missile sites represented developments in the ability to launch a missile quicker, should the need arise. The D and E designs were referred to as ‘coffin’ type because the missile was stored in a horizontal position and, if needed, tilted vertically for launch, similar to Dracula rising out of his casket. The F type, called a silo, was completely submerged. An ‘Equipment and Material Sale’ brochure resulting from their eventual decommissioning read as follows: “The silo is an underground facility. It is approximately 52 feet in diameter and

(Figure 2) Location of Cold War Atlas missile silos in the Nebraska (Image courtesy of author, created by University of Nebraska students Joseph Holtz and Ian Jones)

approximately 174 feet in depth with a concrete wall varying in thickness from approximately 2 feet to 9 feet. Within the silo, an octagonal structural steel crib divided into eight levels is suspended by a system of mechanical springs. Mounted within the crib are the numerous systems necessary to launch a missile, as well as a personnel freight elevator and a spiral stairway. The silo also contains electric generating and associated auxiliary and control equipment, heating, ventilation, and air conditioning equipment necessary to support the missile. Located within the crib is a 21-foot square, enclosed, insulated, vertical shaftway (missile enclosure area - MEA) containing a launcher platform, weighing approximately 270,000 pounds. It is suspended by a wire rope cable system and serves as the elevator to lilt the missile to launch position. The launch platform is divided into four levels, which contain the equipment to service the missile. NOTE: The missiles are no longer in the

BRIAN KELLY

(Figure 3) Cross section through an Atlas-F underground missile silo (Image courtesy of author, created by University of Nebraska student Nathan Gradoville)

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silos. The total suspended weight of the crib and launch platform with equipment is approximately 1,500 tons.”10 The Lincoln Star reporter Betty Person was given a tour prior to full operation and wrote a firsthand account in August of 1961. “You begin your descent through a concrete stairway off to the side – a normal enough approach, nothing frightening about that. At the end of the stairway you went through a seemingly ordinary door, but you’re informed that this is the “trap,” and that as the site becomes more classified, a television camera placed there will assure those inside that each entrant is on “our team” in every sense of the word.”11 In this vestibule, each missileer would be required to pick up a telephone after entering and locking the first door and would be prompted with a code from the crew inside, which would require the appropriate response. Once the correct response code was given, the second door unlocked, allowing access through a 6,000-pound manganese steel door leading to the Launch Control Center.12 Again from the 1966 brochure: “Located approximately 100 feet away and also underground is the launch control center (LCC). It is tunnel-connected to the silo at level 2 of the silo and just below level 2 of the LCC. The LCC is a rein­forced, concrete, cylindrical-shaped room approximately 44 feet in diameter and 33 feet high, containing a steel crib, divided into two levels. It is suspended by an air-cushioned suspension system. The LCC contains some missile launch control equipment, facility control equipment,

(Figure 4) Construction of Atlas F Missile sites surrounding Dyess Air Force Base in the early 1960’s. Photo by Airman 1st Class Rebecca Van Syoc (Image courtesy of Defense Visual Information Distribution Service)

and communications facilities. It also contains an office, ready room, storage area, heat, ventilating and air conditioning equipment, kitchen, messing, and sanitary facilities for the crew. A tunnel with blast-resistant closures provides access between the LCC and the silo. Personnel access to the LCC is through a concrete opening at ground level to a descending staircase also equipped with blast-resistant closures.”13 (Figure 3) Silo Earthwork and Construction A student study guide developed in 1964 by Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas started with an introduction stating the following: “The American philosophy, “Strike back hard but never first,” makes it imperative that the launch site is able to survive an attack. In the event of a nuclear attack, everything above ground within the blast area would be destroyed. For this reason, the launch site has been placed under the ground.”14 The subterranean strategy was positioned as essential for both defense and a

BRIAN KELLY

(Figure 5) Construction of Atlas F Missile sites surrounding Dyess Air Force Base in the early 1960’s. Photo by Airman 1st Class Rebecca Van Syoc (Image courtesy of Defense Visual Information Distribution Service)

subsequent retaliatory attack. Unprecedented in its construction, this configuration posed both opportunities and challenges as the ground was broken in the Spring of 1960. The construction of the Atlas-F missile silos was an incredible demonstration of partnership with governmental and civilian workforces to build a structure the likes of which no one had seen before, all in a timeframe of 10 months.15 A review of the historical governmental records and newspaper articles from this period exposes a range of problems, including material sourcing, trade union strikes, and walkouts, labor disputes and picketing, adverse subsurface conditions,

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deaths, and even the occasional “freak tornado.”16 The soil conditions at the Nebraska sites posed significant challenges from the outset, but Western Contracting Corporation out of Sioux City, IA, was experienced in a deep excavation. Initial site adaptation involved scraping out a ‘bowl’ measuring approximately 150 feet x 250 feet to a depth of approximately 40 feet from where all future earthwork and construction would occur.17 (Figure 4) Shaft mining continued to excavate the roughly 50-foot diameter silo to an overall depth of 175 feet while the construction of the launch control center rose vertically from this ground plane. At 75 feet of depth, the soil composition

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(Figure 6) Backfill operation method proposed by Western Contracting Corporation, Lincoln Air Force Base. (Image courtesy of US Army Corps of Engineers Ballistic Missile Construction Office, Historical Summary Report of Major ICBM Construction)

began to pose problems as fine sand caved in and slowed progress. Steel shoring was used, in addition to ring beams, which stabilized the ground until concrete could be placed.18 Several pumps were required as the depth continued to increase, and groundwater conditions threatened to claim the space where the soil was removed. At their peak, twelve 50 horsepower pumps ran continuously, pumping out 400 gallons of water per minute and returned it to adjacent agricultural fields.19 Once the final depth of the silo had been achieved, a concrete base with steel reinforcing was poured. This milestone then turned attention

upward as workers returned on the same path, this time leaving approximately 400 tons20 of 2-¼”21 steel reinforcing bars placed so closely there was just enough room for the concrete to flow between and infill. A slip form technique allowed for a continuous pour as formwork moved vertically with the work crews.22 The thickness of the concrete for most of the vertical silo was approximately 2 feet, but the top 29 feet expanded to massively thick walls measuring 9 feet, designed to withstand a close blast.23 The amount of steel reinforcing used in this top portion also increased, creating a staggering three-dimensional grid of steel. (Figure 5) Once topped out at 175 feet, additional steel

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reinforcing was installed, and concrete poured to create a 9-foot thick top cap complete with two 150,000 pound concrete silo doors measuring 22 feet by 16 ½ feet24 operated through hydraulic cylinders where the missile would be loaded and, if needed, launched from. In the end, 6,000 cubic yards of concrete were used in the silo structure alone, lining the outer surface of the space where 70,000 cubic yards of soil was displaced.25 Due to concerns resulting from previous delays caused by subsurface soil conditions, a very specific method of backfilling the initial bowl area was outlined by Western Contracting Corporation.26 This process covered the remaining 40 feet of the concrete silo, which was protruding from the ground, as well as the entire launch control center and connecting tube, burying the entire construction underground. Upon completion, the only elements visible from the Earth’s surface were the triangular stair entrance and the concrete cap. (Figure 6) Decommissioning and Abandonment This is where the Nebraska Atlas story begins and also ends rather quickly. After four years in operation, the U.S. military decommissioned the 12 Atlas-F missile silos in the Cornhusker state in 1965 as newer technology, and solid fuel rockets rendered them obsolete. Materials and equipment were salvaged and offered for sale at public auctions. Once cleared out and all procedures were completed, the land was sold back to the public, and the concrete megastructures remained in the soil.

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Over 50 years after decommissioning, I had the opportunity to visit one of these original structures just west of the self-proclaimed “Czech Capital of Nebraska,” a small town called Wilber. Access to the site had changed from the original design where it would have connected to the state highway for ease in delivering the missile and is now approached from the east off of a country road. The existing perimeter fence remains and stands out from a typical barrier in this area due to its height and materials. The gravel road, overgrown with local grasses, crosses an agricultural field with permission from the farmstead owner as a review of the property deed shows the boundary to be an island without proper means of entry. All ancillary buildings (storage, maintenance, etc.) were removed as part of the decommissioning process, and a lone shipping container store personal tools and equipment of the current owner. The site is visited by the Environmental Protection Agency once a year to check readings from the probes monitoring ground contamination resulting from cleaning chemicals used in the facility’s operation. A field adjacent to the silo, now covered with wildflowers, shows the faint outline of depression where a retention pond would have stored water pumped from the silo during its operation. Finally, the small hut housing the water well is still standing and, after installing a solar cell for power, today it pumps clean water for a crop of starter trees. The new owner of the silo is a young, single male with a completely open mind as to what might become of the Cold War relic. The site

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was purchased with the hopes of building a house in the future, and the silo might just be, in his words, “a really cool basement.” To this point, he has worked with absolute respect to its history, seeking out original plans from the Army Corps of Engineers as a reference for authenticity. Outside of measured movement in the underground concrete modules, the structure has remained virtually the same since the mid1960s and is in relatively good shape as I would soon find out. Upon meeting the owner on-site during the Summer of 2018, we walked over the original concrete cap and silo blast doors to the same stair path described by Betty Person during her visit in 1961. Although the site has power, the years of nonuse have rendered the electrical system and fixtures in the facility less than reliable. With no permanent lamps in place, the use of a powerful flashlight was an essential companion. Natural light from the open door at the top of the stairs presented false confidence in wayfinding, which was quickly negated as we followed the circuitous path leading to the security vestibule, which was designed to prevent fallout from entering the silo should a bomb detonate nearby. By this time, the light that was struggling to make it to the bottom of the stair was all but gone. Opening the convex steel blast door formed to resist pressure from a close attack gave us access to the rusted steel stair leading to the two levels of the LCC. All of the steel in the facility had originally been painted a light green reminiscent of mid-century institutional buildings, yet now

was being taken over with a layer of invasive rust indicating the elevated level of moisture in the air. As we moved throughout the space, the quality of the concrete pours was noticeable and spoke to craftsmanship deemed admirable in today’s construction skills, as it has weathered time very well. Several relics of the facility’s operation are still on-site, including a control desk, office chairs, and random mechanical and electrical equipment boxes. Upon reaching the bottom level of the stair, we turn towards the climax of the visit while our flashlights struggle to break through the thick darkness. In the distance, the sound of water dripping gets louder as we move through the connecting tube, which is barely tall enough to keep from hitting our heads. Exiting the tube and turning our flashlights upwards reveals the concrete ceiling covered with beads of condensation and several miniature stalactites. We are now at the entrance to the silo, and the echo of footsteps and voices carries through the darkness with the ease that flashlight beams cannot. Looking up from this portal, approximately 40 feet below the surface of the Earth, reveals the original concrete cap with intact blast doors. Again, the quality of the concrete construction at the massive hollow cylinder is to be admired and considered equal to that of other mid-century brutalist icons. Peering down approximately 40 feet from this point reveals the source of the dripping noise as we struggle to see through the top surface of nearly 100 feet of ground and rainwater filling the bottom of the silo. Nature appears to have reached a comfortable state of

BRIAN KELLY

equilibrium, visibly pronouncing the level of the water table which plagued construction nearly 60 years ago. This volume of water is the equivalent of nearly 6 million gallons collected over time. Several minutes were spent in this area, just trying to comprehend the enormity of the space and the history of what this piece of infrastructure was responsible for. Upon leaving, we return on the path we entered, allowing for our eyes to adjust to the intense light difference as we ascend back on the stair to the Earth’s surface. Conclusion As both an architect and a history aficionado, the question still remains in my mind: Is the Atlas-F missile silo considered a work of architecture or only a feat of engineering with significant historical impact? With little precedent outside of war bunkers in places like Hitler’s Atlantic Wall and negligible evidence suggesting that the silo served as a source of inspiration for subsequent work, it is difficult to measure its effect in the architectural lineage. An argument can be made that, although largely unknown, the Atlas-F missile silo was an important edifice in the history of built works in the U.S. based upon its construction innovation, importance, and monumentality. The slip form cast in place concrete techniques produced materiality which rivaled that of concurrent brutalist icons of the mid- 20th century. The silo portion itself would have been the second tallest building in the state of Nebraska, next to Bertram Goodhue’s prominent Capital had it been built above ground. Such important service to the country was to

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be executed in these structures, yet they were only in operation for approximately four years and, once rendered obsolete, the government decommissioned them and walked away without emotional connection. As a result, the silos were left buried under American soil, out of sight and out of mind. I have resolved that it is not likely that the Atlas-F missile silo will find itself in the pages of a book surveying significant mid-20th century buildings - Architecture with a capital ‘A,’ if you will. Although the interior of the silo is incredibly monumental with its vertical spatial proportions and dramatic lighting, being located underground meant that the communicative qualities of a formalist exterior worthy of a magazine spread have been sacrificed. These silos, however, were significant in a way that transcends architectural history and theory. Although this was a project which essentially did not exist outside of the government, the workers who built it, and the select missileers who were stationed in its depths, the effect the silos left on the communities who lived next to them was great. For some families, it helped to sustain them through the recession. For others, they ushered in an awareness of how close war was to impacting the plains, whether it be felt by school-aged children ducking and covering under their desks or adults who built and stocked their own underground backyard bunker. The Atlas-F silo will forever be a part of the history of the central states and will remain in the collective memory of the Midwestern people as well as the soil they call home. This is, indeed, a perfect place for hiding a relic of a war never fought.

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Endnotes 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

Harbaugh, Jennifer. “Biography of Wernher Von Braun.” NASA. NASA, February 18, 2016. https:// www.nasa.gov/centers/marshall/history/vonbraun/bio.html. Rose, Kenneth D. One Nation Underground: the Fallout Shelter in American Culture. New York: New York University Press, 2004. “Radio and Television Report to the American People on the Berlin Crisis, July 25, 1961.” JFK Library. Accessed October 2, 2019. https://www.jfklibrary.org/archives/other-resources/ john-f-kennedy-speeches/berlin-crisis-19610725. “Atlas F Complexes.” Atlas F. Accessed October 2, 2019. http://www.atlasmissilesilo.com/atlas_f.htm. Karle, Sarah Thomas, and David Karle. Conserving the Dust Bowl: the New Deals Prairie States Forestry Project. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2017. Nick Batter, “The Shoulders of Atlas: Rural Communities and Nuclear Missile Base Construction in Nebraska, 1958-1962,” Nebraska History 93 (2012): 54-83 “Lockheed During World War II: Operation Camouflage.” Lockheed Martin. Accessed February 6, 2020. https://www.lockheedmartin.com/en-us/news/features/history/camouflage.html. Harding, David. “That Time They Tested a Cold War Fallout Shelter for Cows in Elkhorn.” Omaha.com, June 28, 2018. https://www.omaha.com/lifestyles/that-time-they-tested-a- cold-war-fallout-shelter-for/article_fb04dca4-13f5-11e7-afcd-bf1b7f20ec76.html. “Offutt Forever Linked with 9-11.” Offutt Air Force Base, September 6, 2011. https://www.offutt.af.mil/ News/Article/311755/offutt-forever-linked-with-9-11/. Ibid. Atlas “F” Missile Launching Sites’ Equipment and Material Sale, Sale No. 01-6012, Defense Logistics Services Center, Battle Creek, MI, dated Thursday, January 13, 1966. Person, Betty. “Awesome Underground Silo Hides The Atlas.” The Lincoln Star, August 10, 1961. Hinterthuer, Adam. “Missile Silo Fixer-Upper Now Swanky Bachelor Pad.” Wired. Conde Nast, March 27, 2018. https://www.wired.com/2009/10/missile-base-2/. Atlas “F” Missile Launching Sites’ Equipment and Material Sale, Sale No. 01-6012, Defense Logistics Services Center, Battle Creek, MI, dated Thursday, January 13, 1966. Missile Launch/Missile Officer, Atlas E/F Branch, Sheppard Air Force Base. “Student Study Guide.” March 1, 1964. p. 1. Hatcher, Marvin. “12 Area Missile SitesNear Completion.” Lincoln Journal, Sep 2, 1961. Freak Tornado KIlls Missile Site Worker.” Lincoln Star, Sep 4 1961. Lt. Col. Larrabee, Vance. “Progress on Lincoln Area Missile Sites” Jet Scoop, July 15, 1960. “Beatrice SIlo Sand Shifting: Atlas Missile Shaft in Need of Shoring.” Omaha World Herald, June 14, 1960. “Concrete pouring to start at missile base on Monday.” Ibid. “Concrete pouring to start at missile base on Monday.” Lt. Col. Larrabee, Vance. “Progress on Lincoln Area Missile Sites” Jet Scoop, July 15, 1960. “Yawning Holes Mark Sites Of Lincoln Missile Complex.” Lincoln Sunday Journal and Star, July 3 1960. 24) Missile Launch/Missile Officer, Atlas E/F Branch, Sheppard Air Force Base. “Student Study Guide.” March 1, 1964. p. 34. Hatcher, Marvin. “12 Area Missile SitesNear Completion.” Lincoln Journal, Sep 2, 1961. Henderson, Lester. US Army Corps of Engineers, Ballistic Missile Construction Office. “Section 6, Backfill Problems.” CEBMCO Historical Summary Report of Major ICBM Construction, Book 2. March 31, 1962.

074 076 078 080 082 084 Ceara O’Leary

Shared, Offsite and Green

Leveraging Neighborhood Stormwater Infrastructure Ceara O’Leary, AIA, is a Co-Executive Director at the Detroit Collaborative Design Center (DCDC) within the University of Detroit Mercy School of Architecture, where she leads collaborative community design and planning projects citywide. She is also a Professor of Practice at the School of Architecture, teaching public interest design and community development courses. Ceara joined the DCDC in 2012 as an Enterprise Rose Architectural Fellow. She speaks nationally on DCDC’s work and community design and development and is the immediate past Chair of the AIA Housing and Community Development Knowledge Community Advisory Group. In 2015 Ceara was named a “Top Urban Innovator” by Next City Vanguard and completed a fellowship with the ULI Larsen Center for Leadership. Previously, Ceara worked as a Community Designer with bcWORKSHOP and a Public Design Intern at the Gulf Coast Community Design Studio in Biloxi, Mississippi. Ceara graduated from the University of California, Berkeley with Masters degrees in Architecture and City & Regional Planning and she earned her undergraduate degree from Brown University.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

CEARA O’LEARY

Upstream Opportunities In Detroit today, citizens and city governments alike are seeking solutions for stormwater management citywide. In recent years, green stormwater infrastructure (GSI from here on out) has become a hot (and sometimes heated) topic, as property owners navigate drainage fees and a new ordinance requires developers of a certain size to manage water on site. However, GSI also offers an opportunity for investment in neighborhood green spaces that benefit the environment, provide educational opportunities, and contribute to communities. For the past three years, the Detroit Collaborative Design Center (DCDC), a community-engaged design firm based in the School of Architecture at the University of Detroit Mercy, has been working with community partners and the professional stormwater ecosystem to develop strategies that make the most of Detroit’s soils and one of our city’s opportunities – vacant land – to help property owners reduce their bills by building green infrastructure that boasts cobenefits that range from healthier ecosystems and habitat to neighborhood beautification and stabilization. DCDC has led studies that focus on the intersection of green stormwater infrastructure and community planning, investigating the issue through economic, legal, engineering and design lenses, in partnership with an interdisciplinary team. The studies have led to policy recommendations as well as proposed projects that support coinciding community goals in the northwest and the east side of Detroit. Key

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lessons, processes, and collaborations that impact the stormwater systems of our city and root solutions in our soils are described here. Brief Definitions GSI is on Detroiters’ minds in part due to our combined sewer overflow system and the impact of requirements in place to keep our waterways clean. In Detroit, as in many older industrial cities (and otherwise), stormwater drains into the same sewer system as our sewage waste. In instances of heavy rain, the combined flow overwhelms existing infrastructure and risks overflowing into the Detroit and Rouge Rivers without adequate treatment. In recent years Detroit Water and Sewerage Department (DWSD) has invested a billion dollars in “gray” infrastructure upgrades to considerably reduce overflows that contaminate our rivers. It has also updated its drainage charge program “to ensure all city parcels are equitably billed for their share of drainage costs.”1 This means property owners pay a monthly drainage charge that is calculated based on their impervious area (rooftops, parking lots, driveways, etc.). GSI involves natural drainage practices that rely upon soils, plants, and landscaping to protect water quality and reduce the amount of stormwater runoff by slowing it down, providing storage and infiltration onsite during rain events. The work included here primarily focuses on bioretention, which captures runoff in a depressed planting area and facilitates planting options that contribute to neighborhood beautification. Bioretention allows runoff to infiltrate into the soil (volume reduction) and/or store water to control flow to

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Bioretention (see details at right) mixed soil

decorative hardscape

gravel bed pipe and drain

curb cut for parking lot runoff

Rendering of infill green stormwater infrastructure along Grand River Avenue.

the sewer system (peak flow reduction). These practices can be implemented by property owners including governments, businesses, residents, and organizations and developed at the site or building scale, neighborhood and public space scale, or expanded community-wide. GSI has the potential to provide environmental, economic and social benefits, contributing to a “triple bottom line.”2 Non-residential property owners can earn drainage credits to reduce their bill through the implementation of GSI that collects stormwater for infiltration and storage below ground, removing runoff from our combined drainage system and dirty water from our rivers. This economic benefit, coupled with inherent environmental benefits and potential community benefits through the creation of intentional green

spaces, are opportunities and cause for optimism. Related opportunities are explored further here. Community Practices3 As the City of Detroit has been developing drainage policy, DCDC has been exploring opportunities to deploy GSI to the benefit of Detroit neighborhoods through a series of studies with a slew of interdisciplinary partners. In 2017, the office surveyed work by professional allies to understand further opportunities for research. Through initial analysis of existing GSI resources and initiatives, the team identified a gap in GSI strategies for non-residential properties that meet neighborhood urban design goals and support Detroit property owners. A resulting study

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focused on strategies for Grandmont Rosedale and Brightmoor neighborhood commercial corridors – with lessons for commercial corridors and adjacent neighborhoods citywide. The study identified opportunities for nonresidential property owners to work together to implement shared GSI projects that control runoff, reduce drainage charges, and contribute to neighborhood beautification and stabilization. These shared solutions provide GSI opportunities for property owners with limited options and for whom the drainage charge is a hardship. Design concepts respond to Detroit’s unique landscape and emphasize the improved quality of life through green space, enhancement of commercial corridors and activation of vacant land. Shared GSI solutions provide more options for Detroit property owners seeking to alleviate their drainage charge and

provide creative options for green spaces that strengthen communities. Such solutions can take many forms on different sites with a common emphasis on utilizing Detroit’s vacant spaces to benefit property owners, neighbors, and the city. Fenkell Road + Grand River Avenue4 Drawing lessons from Grandmont-Rosedale and Brightmoor in northwest Detroit, this research focuses on how GSI can help bridge high and low density in Detroit neighborhoods. The link between higher density commercial and residential cores and adjacent areas with greater vacancy and landscape opportunities is a framework that also guides planning initiatives throughout the city. Grand River Avenue and Fenkell Road, the respective commercial corridors in higher density Grandmont- Rosedale and lower density Brightmoor are characteristic of many Detroit

Pierson St. Fenkell Ave.

Occupied Parcels Vacant Properties

$

$$$$

$

$$$

Buildings

$

Shared Green Infrastructure Properties Investing in GSI Alley Conveyance Greenway Stormwater Runoff

200 ft

Diagram depicting a concept for how multiple property owners can invest in a shared GSI diagram project.

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SHARED, OFFSITE AND GREEN

neighborhood retail strips and offer citywide lessons. The Fenkell maps included here depict ownership and vacancy patterns within the sewer sub-catchment area that encompasses the corridor – as well as a vision for shared neighborhood GSI opportunities fully realized along the corridor and in the surrounding blocks. Should these concepts move forward, a robust community engagement effort should define GSI strategies that best suit the neighborhood.

GSI strategies make sense along Fenkell. Design solutions that manage stormwater runoff from multiple properties and add interest and beauty to the street edge would help stabilize the corridor and reduce drainage charges for Fenkell owners. Additional opportunities lie in the vacant residential property adjacent to the commercial corridor – ideas include a GSI greenway linking key green spaces in the neighborhood. Additional amenable sites include vacant properties at street corners proposed as offsite GSI to manage water from the ROW, as well as large swaths of vacant

Due to ample publicly-owned vacant land, infill Fenkell Properties Analysis

Prepared by the Detroit Collaborative Design Center 06.19.17

Fenkell Avenue ownership + vacancy

Fenkell at a glance 18% publicly owned 12% faith-based ownership 21% (7.38 acres) = 0% impervious 43% (15 acres) pervious overall 20 acres impervious = $13,000/month drainage fees

Rouge Valley Parkway

Keeler St Warwick

Grandville

Piedmont St

Auburn St

Minock St

Evergreen Rd

Dolphin St

Rockdale St

Lamphere

Dacosta St

Bramell

Chatham

Beaverland St

Fenkell Ave

Plainview St

Keeler St Keeler St

Outer Drive W

Heyden St

Vaughan St

Stout St

Fielding St

Kentfield St

Braile St

Patton St

Burt Rd

Trinity St

Pierson St

Blackstone St

Westbrook St

Midland-Bentler Playground

Burgess

Chapel St

Bentler St

Lahser Rd

Graydale St

Hazelton St

Grayfield St

Virgil St

Riverdale Ave

Lliad St

W Parkway St

Midland St

Fenkell Ave Fenkell Ave

Outer Drive W

Chalfonte Ave

Stoepel Number 1

Eliza Howell Park

Occupied Parcels Vacant Properties Commercial Properties/Others (Source: makeloveland)

Totals for Fenkell corridor:

Publicly Owned Properties (Source: makeloveland) Faith-Based Ownership (Source: makeloveland) 0% Impervious Cover (Source: dwsd)

10

Rouge River Outfall Point

34.7 AC 6.16 AC 17.75%

4.11 AC 11.84%

7.38 AC 1000 ft 21%

The Fenkell Avenue sewer sub-catchment area in the Brightmoor neighborhood encompasses the entire commercial strip. Like many neighborhood commercial corridors in Detroit, Fenkell Avenue has plenty of vacant parcels, many of which are publicly owned. The amount of previous surface area in the Fenkell sub-catchment area makes a case for GSI as an infill strategy along the commercial corridor and on adjacent vacant residential lots. Using basic rules of thumb, all runoff from non-residential properties along Fenkell could be managed in existing permeable lots.

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Fenkell Properties Analysis

Prepared by the Detroit Collaborative Design Centert 12.07.17

neighborhood gsi opportunities

HIGHER DENSITY

LOW DENSITY

Rouge Valley Parkway

Parking Lot BioSWALES

Keeler St Piedmont St

Warwick St

Grandville Ave

Auburn St

Minock St

Evergreen Rd

Plainview St

Dolphin St

Rockdale St

Lamphere

Dacosta St

Bramell

Chatham

Beaverland St

Fenkell Ave

Outer Drive W

Vaughan St

Stout St

Heyden St

Kentfield St

Fielding St

Braile St

Patton St

Burt Rd

Pierson St

Trinity St

Blackstone St

Keeler St Keeler St

DETENTION BASIN/recreation Path

WetLAND PURIFICATION

Westbrook St

Midland-Bentle Playground Bentler St

Burgess

Chapel St

Lahser Rd

Graydale St

Hazelton St

Grayfield St

Virgil St

Lliad St

Riverdale Ave

W Parkway St

Midland St

FORMAL POCKET PARK

Fenkell Ave Fenkell Ave

Outer Drive W

Chalfonte Ave

Stoepel Number 1

Eliza Howell Park

Soil Type A

Proposed GSI Site Opportunities

Occupied Parcels

Immediate Adjacencies [Phase I]

Vacant Properties

Primary Path [Phase II]

Commercial/Public/Faith-Based (Source: makeloveland)

Secondary Path [Phase II]

0% Impervious Cover (Source: DWSD)

Adjacent GSI [Phase III]

Rouge River Outfall Point

Streetside GSI [Phase III] GSI Park [Phase III]

Totals for Fenkell corridor

34.7 AC 7.38 AC 21%

1000 ft

These diagrammatic suggestions highlight opportunities for shared GSI but require further site-specific analysis and community engagements. These proposals also require the cooperation of city agencies.

land in type A soils ideal for infiltration. Unlike the Fenkell corridor, offsite solutions make more sense for the Grand River corridor due to high rates of occupancy, private ownership, and imperviousness. This provides an opportunity for linking commercial corridors to nearby neighborhoods by enabling property owners to invest in neighborhood GSI on vacant land already slated for GSI by larger planning processes led by community organizations or the City of Detroit. Proposed sites for GSI along Grand River Avenue consider street corners and

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permeable soils, using the same variables as the Fenkell analysis. This project also considers green parking lots and right of way bioswales along Grand River.

Multidisciplinary Outcomes Proposed GSI systems activate vacant land as neighborhood green space amenities that manage stormwater and produce drainage credits for non-residential property owners. Beyond site selection, this study also examined

SHARED, OFFSITE AND GREEN

and documented the design, engineering, legal, financial, implementation and maintenance implications of shared GSI strategies that manage runoff from multiple non-residential properties in community green spaces. An interdisciplinary team fleshed out the link between neighborhood landscape opportunities to drainage policy and worked with community partners in order to understand real constraints that face Detroit property owners. Site-specific scenarios include practice-based GSI performance calculations, estimated drainage charges, and anticipated credits for multiple property owners. This effort also included policy recommendations to further incentivize GSI implementation – focusing on enabling shared and offsite solutions. Design and engineering of site-specific shared solutions by livingLAB resulted in a thorough analysis and understanding of the many variables inherent to this work. A far-reaching legal analysis by the Great Lakes Environmental Law Center recommended contracts and property instruments to facilitate shared GSI. An exhaustive look at financing opportunities by Zachary & Associates, Inc. seeks to develop feasible models by which property owners can fund GSI projects with support from corridor nonprofits and DWSD. Steps toward implementation and maintenance unique to shared GSI practices were detailed by OHM Advisors and Fai Foen. The myriad of benefits associated with GSI was researched and compiled by Erma Leaphart. The work also includes collaboration with property owners and commercial corridor nonprofits, specifically Grandmont Rosedale Development

Corporation, Brightmoor Artisans Collective, and Southwest Detroit Business Association. Eastside Scenarios + Another Definition Across town, on the eastside of Detroit, DCDC has been working with a similar set of partners and the nonprofit place-based community development organization Eastside Community Network (ECN) on similar questions. This more recent effort examines opportunities to leverage GSI in an eastside neighborhood to generate multiple benefits for both offsite investors and the local community. In particular, the project unpacks the potential for developers investing in offsite GSI strategies that beautify and stabilize land in Detroit’s more vacant neighborhoods, weighing policy, legal, financial considerations alongside stormwater performance. Proposed offsite GSI strategies offer property owners and developers an opportunity to comply with the stormwater ordinance and/or earn drainage charge credits by investing in GSI practices located in a different location than the property owner who receives credits. In turn, GSI projects align with neighborhood goals and contribute to beautification and stabilization through the reuse of vacant land. Both offsite developers and local commercial property owners can contribute to this vision and benefit in terms of ordinance compliance and drainage charge credits. In this study design and stormwater, calculations were performed by InSite Design Studio. Similar to the westside investigation, resulting recommendations balance stormwater performance, economic incentives, ownership

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models, and community benefits through a triplebottom-line approach with lessons for similar neighborhoods citywide. After studying key sites that align with neighborhood goals, the team developed site considerations that drive offsite GSI locations, focusing on scattered contiguous vacant properties, rather than conveying larger amounts of water to a centralized GSI practice, due to cost and feasibility. Ultimately, offsite GSI strategies depend upon runoff from the right of way – streets and sidewalks that already collect and convey water.5 Important to note, visible sites with educational value are preferred by community leaders, which includes corner sites on wide streets that can collect more runoff.

H D A R I N E T R E area S T inage G st dra Ea

st We

Overflow structure to connect to existing storm line

Citywide Conclusions

ge ina

dra a

are

Curb inlet and stone swale

Storm pipe to connect rain gardens

6”-deep rain garden with perennials

. S T

R A I C L

Proposed trees

Proposed path

E T R E S T 3”-deep infiltration swale with trees and lawn

Models for shared and offsite GSI solutions make a case for open space investment in low population neighborhoods citywide that demonstrates the multi-layered value of landscape improvements in high vacancy areas.

South drainage area

S H O E M A K E R

S T R E E T

South drainage area

NORTH SCALE: 1”=60’

Site-specific strategy on the eastside that takes advantage of wide roads, existing street configuration and catch basins, and corridor activation and beautification.

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Offsite GSI is a transformational opportunity that offers a landscape solution for low-density neighborhoods. However, this work reconfirmed that the costs of GSI are challenging for many Detroit property owners and drainage credits alone result in a long return on investment that is alone an inadequate incentive for property owners to install GSI practices. Additionally, the ongoing cost of maintenance is also a challenge and begs a question regarding opportunities for local workforce training for GSI installation and maintenance jobs. The conversation around incentives for property owners to invest in GSI has changed recently with the PostConstruction Stormwater Ordinance, which requires developers to invest in GSI, making credits a bonus, rather than the sole monetary incentive. Under the ordinance, projects creating or replacing more than 0.5 impervious acres are required to manage stormwater runoff, creating an opportunity to invest in green solutions.6

Beyond economic incentives, GSI has the potential to generate jobs, improve quality of life, increase safety, and provide ecological value for a more sustainable City of Detroit. Proposed GSI strategies leverage vacancy to control runoff, reduce drainage charges, and contribute to

SHARED, OFFSITE AND GREEN

Rendering of GSI on Detroit’s eastside… on a rainy day.

neighborhood land use objectives. The solutions that support these goals can be implemented by private property owners and community organizations independently, but there is an opportunity to align with and underscore larger city goals. These efforts require the support and cooperation of city agencies and, in turn, align with key City-led planning initiatives with an approach that is applicable citywide. GSI provides a mechanism by which to implement creative land use solutions on vacant residential land that benefits property owners and relieves the combined sewer system. To that end, there are several opportunities for prioritization and coordination of GSI implementation efforts across city departments for more visionary GSI systems that are also more cost-effective

and efficient. Increased interdepartmental coordination could support environmental goals for Detroit neighborhoods and create additional mechanisms to incentivize GSI. Layered together, public, private and community forces can work toward the overall goals of clean water, green neighborhood spaces, reduced flooding, and a myriad of other benefits associated with GSI. Working within the bounds of policy, these players, led by the city, are poised for forward-looking GSI strategies that set precedents and work toward Detroit’s stated goal to become the greenest city in the nation.

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Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4.

5.

6.

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Source: www.detroitmi.gov/drainage, accessed March 2018. Erma Leaphart compiled a summary of economic and other benefits associated with green storm water infrastructure. You can read more about this work and related background on DCDC’s website: http://www.dcdc-udm. org/community/stormwater.html Professor Joan Nassauer at the University of Michigan and her colleagues authored a research endeavor investigating large scale GSI opportunities in the Brightmoor neighborhood through an in-depth and neighborhood-wide approach to stormwater catchment and treatment. This rigorous geomorphological analysis and resultant recommendations are published. Currently, property owners cannot receive drainage credits nor meet ordinance compliance by managing water from the public right of way. Offsite GSI, while included as an alternative compliance option for the ordinance, are only acceptable if there are no reasonable solutions on site. DSWD’s Capital Partnership Program also provides an added incentive and financing relief for nonresidential property owners pursuing GSI projects. More information about this program, as well as the drainage charge and other regulations, can be found at DWSD’s website: https://detroitmi.gov/ departments/water-and-sewerage-department/stormwater-management-and-drainage-charge.

SHARED, OFFSITE AND GREEN

086 088 090 092 094 096 Eric Wong

A New Capital: The Case for Britain Eric studied Art and Architecture at the Byam Shaw School of Art, Central Saint Martins. He completed his undergraduate degree at Cardiff University and later graduated with a masters from the Bartlett School of Architecture, UCL. He was nominated for the RIBA President’s Silver Medal and is a recipient of the Bartlett School of Architecture Medal for outstanding academic achievements in professional performance, the Sir Banister Fletcher Medal for highest marks in Part 2 graduate studies and the Fitzroy Robinson Drawing Prize for best drawings in Part 2 graduate studies. He later completed his Part III professional studies at the University of Cambridge where he qualified as an Architect. He is currently practicing and teaching in architecture.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

ERIC WONG

“In light of the increasing centralisation of wealth in London, imagine the prosperity that a new political capital city in the centre of the country could bring.” – James Dunnett1 2011 marked the centenary of Britain’s endeavour in building a new capital city. In 1911, King-Emperor George V announced that the capital of the British Indian Empire was to be transferred from Calcutta to Delhi, and a new city built to accommodate it, New Delhi. Is it plausible for Britain to consider its next venture in building a new capital infrastructure?

that these new industrial centres established their own trade with the Empire with tea and spices from the Orient, ivory, and cocoa from Africa, wheat and refrigerated meat from the Americas and timber and furs from the Baltic.2 This created a much more even distribution of population and wealth throughout the British Isles. In prolific English writer H.G. Well’s novel Tono-Bungay, he describes the United Kingdom as having “The richest town in the world, the biggest port, the greatest manufacturing town, the Imperial city – the centre of civilisation, the heart of the world!”3 Unrealised Visions for a Renewed Capital

Historical Overview of a Successful Capital The twentieth century saw the United Kingdom undergo a multitude of changes since its conception as “the empire on which the sun never sets.” This phrase referred to the British Empire in the 19th century to its greatest extent, with a presence on all inhabited continents and a population of more than 400 million people spanning the globe. Westminster came to be the place for decision-making and the centre of administration. Meanwhile, other major medieval cities at the time, such as Bristol and Norwich, grew to provide a regional commercial counterbalance to London. Subsequently, the Industrial Revolution, which shaped a transition to more manufactured processes, saw major developments and growth throughout Northern England, South Wales, Central Scotland, and Northern Ireland. The vast compound of docks and previously established trading links meant

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However, by the end of the twentieth century, London was no longer a hub of imperial power. Meanwhile, industry in the surrounding regions of the United Kingdom had declined. The formerly established economies in the North and West lost their economic power, which was retreated to the South East. As planning, history, and environment professor Dennis Hardy explains, this was a period where “Britain had yet to settle on a new identity, whether as part of Europe, an adjunct of the United States or leader of a phantom Commonwealth”4. Several plans ensued to create a renewed capital with reformers and visionaries such as William Morris envisaging London as “the modern Babylon of civilisation”5 vanishing, alluding to a revival of rural towns, villages and a more pastoral England. Similarly, Sir Ebenezer Howard founded the Garden City Movement, which promoted suburban models of living first established in Letchworth,

ERIC WONG

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A NEW CAPITAL: THE CASE FOR BRITAIN

England. His reforms believed that opportunity and good wages in a town could coexist with the beauty, fresh air, and low rents of a country. In the last chapter of his book Garden Cities of Tomorrow: The Future of London, Howard alludes to a new future for the capital, noting that “the time for the complete reconstruction of London – which will eventually take place on a far more comprehensive scale… has not yet come.”6 Another prominent reformer was English town planner Sir Patrick Abercrombie, who was notable for his post-Second World War re-planning of London known as the Greater London Plan. This proposal created a suburban ring, affordable living options, commercial opportunities, open space, and an efficient transport system. Although the implementation was never fully realised, the Greater London Plan managed to provide hope for the capital’s inhabitants in rebuilding postwar Britain. The aspiration continues to what is to date, the third plan for London in modern history, inaugurated by the Mayor of London and the Greater London Authority was The London Plan, a vision to transform the capital in to “an exemplary sustainable world city.”7 However, Britain’s capital has yet to realise the visionary ideals of its predecessors. Challenges of a Geographical Eccentric Capital With rising house prices, population congestion, and development burdens concentrated in the south-east, London has seen intensive pressures to maintain its capital status with little to redistribute wealth, re-imagine a new capital and

to reinvent in the truly United Kingdom. Recent figures indicate that the average price of a home in London was estimated at £450,000, whereas in the North, it was nearer to £150,000,8 a threefold difference. Similarly, according to Lucian Cook, director of residential research at Savills’ analysis of the Census and Land Registry data, “Houses in London’s ten most expensive boroughs are now worth as much as the property markets of Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland combined,” underlining the extent of Britain’s growing wealth divide.9 Correspondingly, the Department for Communities and Local Governments 2015 English Indices of deprivation indicates that Middlesbrough, Knowsley, Kingston upon Hull, Liverpool and Manchester, all of which are located outside or North of London, have the largest proportions of highly deprived neighbourhoods in England.10 The 2012 London Olympics saw major developments in its lead up. London’s race to build the Shard, the tallest tower in Europe upon its completion, only held such status momentarily. The busiest international airport in the world, London Heathrow, has also been under intense consideration to increase its airport capacity, adding to the concentration of growth and pressures in the corner of the southeast. Other transport developments include the High-Speed Rail. Some believe this to be a positive initiative by bridging the nation’s northsouth divide; however, it could also be argued that a faster connection to London could make it less attractive to travel to the surrounding regions. Former British broadcast journalist and BBC economics editor Stephanie Flanders noted that “over time, you can see how London’s

ERIC WONG

dominance could become ever more entrenched, with Britain’s “second-tier” cities never reaching critical mass.”11 Although the capital has been seeing success, there is little indication to suggest that it is assisting the other parts of the country is catching up. Witnessing the burden London is accumulating and the effects it had on its surrounding regions, The Government has sought, for many years, to spread its spending outside the south-east geographic eccentricity of the country. Efforts have included the relocation of the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency to Swansea, H.M. Revenue and Customs to Newcastle upon Tyne, alongside the relocation of many operations of the BBC to Salford, near Manchester. However, attempts at relocating companies by offering subsidies and tax breaks have generally had little success. It could be argued that moving the capital would carry the significant weight necessary in altering the counterbalance in the distribution of population and wealth. Could Britain let go of London and become a first-rate country with a first-rate city? Could an arguably ‘Broken Britain,’ a term coined by the conservative party as widespread social decay in the United Kingdom instead be considered as a ‘Breakthrough Britain’? A Proposition: The Case for Britain Relocating Britain’s capital may appear totally fanciful and farfetched; however, such a move has been considered in the past to the regions of Lancashire and York, a more geographic centre. With London being an unusual capital

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of both government and commerce compared to most major economies, a separation of the two may seem desirable when compared to the few cities with a single capital – France and Russia are models of over-centralisation and the Japanese government has been considering a relocation from Tokyo for some time. Similarly, geographical separation from the city and its financers could provide a different light and outlook on the United Kingdom from a nonLondon perspective. The relocation would, at foremost, see a radical geographical redistribution of wealth and eased pressures on London’s transport and housing market. If we consider the relocation of the capital as a shift in the balance of contending forces, a binding centre to mediate separated regions, a revival of past glory or the promotion of a new national consensus, then a renewed capital could once again capture the imaginations of the nation much like the earlier visions of Morris, Howard, and Abercrombie. If this consideration was to be taken seriously, a truly United Kingdom might not be such an improbable proposition after all. Re-Imagining a New Capital Infrastructure The selection, relocation, and founding of a modern capital city have usually been a sentimental event to symbolically represent the unity of a new state. This was the case when Ankara, Turkey; Bern, Switzerland; Canberra, Australia; Madrid; Ottawa, Ontario; Washington, D.C.; and Wellington, New Zealand became capital cities.12

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A NEW CAPITAL: THE CASE FOR BRITAIN

This proposition will imagine the relocation of Britain’s capitals to the centre of the British Isles. The Isle of Man will become Britain’s new symbolic capital for a truly United Kingdom. The hypothetical scenario and fanciful construct of the proposal are intended to raise serious questions about the future roles of capital cities. The project, described in drawings, is a speculative driver and investigative model to cultivate a national ideology of sustainable unity – Unity within the United Kingdom and its arguably disjointed capital cities and unity in relation to its role in Europe and its active participation in the Cohesion Policy. An urban masterplan strategy and a system of architectonic components will ultimately suggest a new unified capital. CONCLUSION: WHAT ARE THE FUTURES FOR CAPITAL CITIES?

research findings distinguished the different types of capitals that exist has helped to identify and more precisely understand their respective roles. Factors such as geographical centrality, population congestion, topological advantages, separation of functions, or independence are political, social, or economic benefits that have contributed to large urban infrastructural changes. The epoch-defining masterplans of Brasilia and Chandigarh have provided an understanding of the challenges a city faces upon its conception, construction, and even beyond its built legacy. These case studies have demonstrated insight into the effects of a narrative-driven relocation and the outcomes of proposed planning models of regional incorporation and built architectures of unity.

The aim of this thesis was to investigate the changing role and identity of our national capitals and to re-imagine the future role of our cities. The research was informed by an understanding of the different types of capital city arrangements and how they differ from other cities, examples of the progressive ideologies and motives for the relocation and building of new capitals, alongside a more propositional exploration of the case and possibility of new capital infrastructure.

It is also important to note that capital cities have sometimes relocated beyond geographical rationale. Naypyidaw and Fatehpur Sikri belong to cases that indicate how cities can unjustifiably be motivated by visions of utopian endeavour. This particular study identifies how the symbolic role of some cities has the potential to overcome locational disadvantages. Similarly, from the Lincoln Memorial to the Pretoria Courtroom, we can also understand how capital cities have been used as ideal centres and platforms for visions, either to voice dissent, propose manifestos, or to build a cohesive and united environment.

Capital cities come in varying sizes, display a variety of functions, and provide particular roles that may differ from city to city. The initial

The aforementioned analysis and investigations of capital cities and the case for relocating Britain’s capital have informed a more speculative

Outcomes of Speculative Design

ERIC WONG

design proposal. Using the United Kingdom as a case study, the architectural strategies in the research response explores the possibility of a capital city relocation, a masterplan for a cohesive urban framework and a system of symbolic architectonic infrastructures. These urban strategies became ingredients and tools to cultivate conditions of cohesion in cities. By establishing a narrative window on to the difficulties capital cities face, the hypothetical New Blazing World positions itself as an investigation and provocation to re-imagining the future role of our cities. The Blazing World capital has aimed to suggest a renewed possible framework and formation of a new capital city, a blueprint for change in the context of national development. They employed strategies and outcomes of the

capital city proposition, ultimately suggests a new lexicon for a cohesive urban typology. What are the Futures for Capital Cities? What is the future role of our cities? An increasing amount of cities have attempted to reinvent the role of their capital in a constant strive to portray the ideal city. Capital cities are constantly changing to adapt to urban stresses, and purpose-built legacies have constituted a particular representation and role of its nation, but ultimately, the forthcoming of our cities will continuously change and will constantly surprise the future of our built environment. We must, therefore, be readily equipped in the continuation of this discourse to further new spatial programs fit for the challenges of our futures.  

Endnotes 1.

http://www.architectural-review.com/rethink/great-britain-the-case-for-a-new-capital-city/8622912. article [Accessed February 2016] 2. Hardy, D (1983). Making Sense of the London Docklands: Processes of Change. London: Middlesex Polytechnic. 3. Wells, H.G (1908). Tono-Bungay. London: Odhams Press. 73. 4. Hardy, D. (2006). London: The Contradictory Capital. In: Gordon, D Planning Twentieth Century Capital Cities. New York: Routledge. 89. 5. z, R (2008). Cities in Modernity: Representations and Productions of Metropolitan Space, 1840-1930. New York: Cambridge University Press. 48. 6. Howard, E. (1902). The Future of London. In: Garden Cities of To-morrow. 2nd ed. London: Dodo Press. 110. 7. https://www.london.gov.uk/sites/default/files/the_london_plan_2004.pdf [Accessed February 2016] 8. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/property/house-prices/11764794/Commuter-towns-that-shave450000-off-London-prices.html [Accessed February 2016] 9. http://www.cnbc.com/id/100442425 [Accessed February 2016] 10. https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/465791/English_ Indices_of_Deprivation_2015_-_Statistical_Release.pdf [Accessed February 2016] 11. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-21934564 [Accessed February 2016] 12. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capital_city [Accessed February 2016]

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098 100 102 104 106 Galen Pardee + William Jamieson

Actuarial Territory Galen Pardee is an architect, educator, and researcher; currently the LeFevre Emerging Practitioner Fellow at The Ohio State University. He received his BA from Brandeis University and an MArch from Columbia University Graduate School of Architecture, Planning and Preservation (GSAPP). Focusing on the intersection of architecture, geopolitical machinations, material economy, and the character of designed objects, his work explores dimensions of architectural advocacy in his practice, Drawing Agency. His research projects have been funded by The Ohio State University, Columbia University GSAPP, and the Graham Foundation for Advanced Studies in the Fine Arts: he has taught architecture studios at Columbia GSAPP and The Ohio State University. William Jamieson is a PhD candidate in Geography at Royal Holloway, University of London. His work is concerned with the integration of political geography and literary theory through critical creative writing methods to enhance our understanding of how space is ‘read’ and ‘written’ by capital. His project concerns dynamics of land reclamation in Singapore and sand extraction across Southeast Asia. His fiction has appeared in Ambit and The Evergreen Review. His fiction pamphlet, Thirst for Sand, was published by Goldsmiths Press in 2019.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

PARDEE + JAMIESON

The Prime Minister stands at the lectern and lets a moment pass. Flash photography strobes the floodlit parade in front of him. His throat is parched, so he takes a quick sip of water. The words that will follow must be smooth and flow without incident. In the dress rehearsal, this was the critical moment when his heart rate spiked, and his palms began to sweat. The teleprompter’s countdown began after he swallowed his sip. National Day, 2030. A parade like any other. A National Day Speech like any other. Before him, his speech scrolling past a screen, next to a map of the parade, all of the regiments and vital organs of the state unfolding like an autopsy down the wide street. The army, the ambulances, the police, he can see them in front of him. But it’s the soil he can see on the screen - millions and millions of tonnes of it he can see making its way towards the parade ground. By dump truck, by barge, by helicopter. Every single grain sourced from rivers and inlets across Southeast Asia. But finally, the elusive ingredient of the Prime Minister’s State of the Art city-state will make an appearance on the national stage at last. No more hiding, no more dissembling, grain after grain, tonne after tonne, kilometre after kilometre. Territory in motion: blood and soil on parade. The regiments arrayed in the centre of the floating platform, like points on a grid – he could hardly tell there was water moving beneath his feet, such as the interlocking structure of the pontoons, the pylons that anchored it to the reservoir floor. As he puts his mouth in the active range of the microphone, a sliver of feedback flickers slightly in the silence of the audience – his breath seems cavernous, immense. He

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must watch how he enunciates carefully. As he opens his mouth to speak, he’s memorised every pause, every syllable, every off-hand remark, so he can appear natural, fluid, relatable. This year, and the one before it, and the one before it, and the one before it, the weight of these words that mete out the momentousness of this day, like the one before it, like the one before it, like the one before it: they gather, settle, aggregate. ‘My Singaporeans, good evening again. This marks an important year in the history of our city-state. 2030 is a date that has weighed on all of our minds for some time. We are five years from the completion of the Tuas Megaport, which will secure our future as a logistical hub. The Great Southern Waterfront is going to revitalize Sentosa and Tanjong Pagar into vibrant, world-class spawning grounds of creativity and innovation.’ No sooner do the words leave his mouth that his mind leaves his body. It is all flowing so seamlessly. He thinks of his father, and his father’s father before him, how it must have felt for him to stand on dry, solid ground that his father only knew as the sea. He never asked his father if he hated water, and it was too late. Years and years. Maybe he never even thought about water at all. Not even once. ‘We stand on the precipice of a new decade, and a new era in the history of our republic. We are taking with us all that has enabled us to succeed and jettisoning everything that has held us back. The past years have been difficult. Sluggish growth, regional instability, extreme weather events.’

ACTUARIAL TERRITORY

Podium 1

The tone of his voice is rich and authoritative – he’d listened to himself talk for minutes at a time in painfully lossless definition, with a vocal coach, isolating the resonant timbres, the contours of authority itself. Over the years, he’s dissected his voice, stripped it for spare parts, slicing and growing his vocal cords until he crafted the voice he needed to become the speaker of. He knew his father was a more talented public than him, a natural orator: everyone said this to his face. So what: talent is one thing, but the skill of succeeding without any natural talent of one’s own was another.

‘In the first few decades of the 21st century, we have seen our city-state transformed. The reclamation of the east and west coasts have redrawn not simply the lines of our city, but the lines of the global economy. Some of you have found these changes to your liking, others not so much. We have even created a new kind of water: NeWater. We have cut our rivers off from the sea and converted them into freshwater reservoirs. We have taken every single element of the nation-state, broken it down, and remade it in our image.

PARDEE + JAMIESON

Podium 2

As he segues from one teleprompter to the other, rigged at various distances to ensure that his gaze drifts naturally over the crowd, he pauses on the battalion in full dress uniform. Many years ago, he was once in uniform, in formation, for another National Day Parade, his father’s voice suffusing the air like humidity itself. He sees himself in the men and sees in himself the men. Interchangeable, spare parts, efficient. His own national service, the beginning of a long and distinguished military career, began a few miles south of here, on an island that he renamed and erased with the stroke of a pen: it had been

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reclaimed with a dozen other small islands to form an entirely new one. If he dies, he wants these men to be sealed inside his air-conditioned tomb with him, like a pharaoh. Again, he pauses, takes a sip of water, because he knows what is going to come next. ‘But for too long, we have kept the secret ingredient of our world-historic transformation from the third world to first under wraps for far too long.’ The civilian crowd quietens, feedback whistles

ACTUARIAL TERRITORY

Podium 3

in the windless mid-afternoon, while he tries to see any traces of shock or confusion in the faces of the soldiers in formation, the only faces he can make out from the podium. Countless rehearsals have not quite prepared him. His throat is parched, coarse—another sip of water. An unexpected flash catches him off-guard. He blinks, humiliated, but in that moment, he is saved. Truck after truck after truck, each carrying forty tonnes of sand, crawling in formations identical to those of the tanks and jeeps that preceded them.

‘It was on this day, many decades ago, that we began our long march towards the future, towards the sea. The first reclamation projects meant that ordinary citizens were walking on water within a decade. We never acknowledged the crucial role played by the sand we shaped our future with. In the beginning, like any other country, we regarded it as no more than dirt, an infinite nuisance that worked its way into every nook and cranny—flowing like a liquid that we could shear into a solid. It was only when we began to run out of it did we realise that we had built our future on the sand. We had to look beyond our borders to

PARDEE + JAMIESON

Podium 4

source the material that would later extend them. Beginning with the East Coast in 1966, to Tuas in 1988, to Changi in 1992, to Marina Bay in 1993, to Pulau Tekong in 2000, we have expanded our city-state in every possible direction. Tuas and Tekong are still being reclaimed, decades after we broke fresh ground there. Our airports, our seaports, our financial centre, our Gardens by the Bay: all are built on sand. Soldiers look expressionlessly on. The lights make it hard to see their faces, the look in their eyes concealed by the shadows cast by the brims

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of their caps. The harsh lighting reduces the spread of the city around the platform to a mere flatness; a set rigged to the consistency of his voice. The far faces of the crowd, the fine citizens he is addressing, resolve into a series of zeroes. We did what any other country in our circumstances would do. Incentivized construction and dredging companies to obtain the best price, on our behalf, as long as certain assurances were met, as with any other good or service consumed by the government. There were… inconsistencies… discrepancies that

ACTUARIAL TERRITORY

Podium 5

cowed us. It made us see our greatest strength as a weakness: to remake the sea in our own image. We kept our most precious resource out of sight, guarded behind razor-wire fences, surveilled by CCTV. What kind of national pride can you possibly have when you hate what you have built your nation out of, more and more, day by day?.’ A flicker of foresight shudders through him: his voice suddenly breaking and the entire platform and mid-afternoon smear of a city collapsing like a curtain drawn suddenly over it. ‘One after another, countries wanted to stop

doing business with us. Our unique demands that nonetheless required exceptionally cheap rates, combined with our purchasing power, allowed us to coax billions of tonnes of sand from countless rivers, estuaries, and foreshores across Southeast Asia, as frontier after frontier closed their borders to us. While my predecessors enacted muchlauded policies to globalize our economy, and anticipate the emerging needs of the market, our geographic fabric was in the course of becoming globalized, the territories of many nations stitched together to form the concealed patchwork of our Global City.’

PARDEE + JAMIESON

Lines of trucks criss-cross in formation. In the distance, he can hear the rotors of a fleet of helicopters. The prior rehearsals all paled in comparison with this one. He can recite this speech in his sleep; according to his wife, he has recited this speech in his sleep. But what will happen next cannot be contained by planning; by its nature, it will overflow. ‘We tried to treat it as a problem; contain it, quarantine it, inoculate ourselves against it. But again and again, these issues repeated themselves. We hadn’t yet realised that the only way out is through. The volume of his speech is increased as the fleet of helicopters near. He can hear the buzzing of voices in his earpiece, a twittering that began as a started to veer off-piste. It sounds like bees now. ‘We need to be honest about what our strengths are; we have managed the endless growth of our economy, and the global economy we must successfully latch onto to survive, with endless geographic growth. Sand is as every bit a Singaporean national mascot as the Merlion. It is time that we began to respect it and learn the lessons that it has taught us every year of this citystate’s existence. We have NeWater, and now that we have learned to convert our incinerated waste ash into construction aggregate, we now have NewSand, and regain control of our own growth. While it must seem like a daunting prospect, to discuss this all in broad daylight, we must learn to cope with growth without end.’

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As he tails off, he looks up towards the afternoon sun, listening to the roar of the helicopter blades as a glint knocks a pilot off course and tonnes of its precious cargo spills, overflows, and inundates him before he can sing the national anthem.

ACTUARIAL TERRITORY

108 110 112 114 116 118 120 122 124 An Interview with Julie Bargmann of D.I.R.T. Studio Julie Bargmann is internationally recognized as an innovative designer of regenerative landscapes. She founded D.I.R.T. studio to research and maximize the latent potential of marginal land for marginalized communities. As a design pioneer into derelict industrial and abandoned urban land, she has forged new territory for her discipline while helping cities and neighbors take on tough landscapes. Bargmann’s adventurous design approach informs her role as Professor at the University of Virginia, where she leads students into degraded terrain, imagining renewed sites of cultural and ecological production. Along with a degree in fine arts from Carnegie-Mellon, Bargmann earned a Master’s in Landscape Architecture at Harvard Design School. Honors include the American Academy in Rome Fellowship and the Smithsonian National Design Award. She has lectured widely, from New Jersey to New Zealand. TIME, CNN and Newsweek, national and international design publications distinguish Bargmann as leading the next generation in making a difference for design and the environment.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

JULIE BARGMANN

“

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When I was in design school in the 80s, ecology was barely in the scene. In the late 60s, there was a backlash to science and ecology, and during the next decade, designers realized landscape architecture was design, it wasn’t all ecology – Pete Walker and Martha Schwartz were hardcore designers swinging the pendulum the other way. When I was in design school, the pendulum was in full swing in terms of design but was swinging back toward ecology. That was when Richard Forman was hired at Harvard, hence the pendulum swinging back. I think that ushered in the era of when ecology and design were going to come together but there were still those awkward years of figuring out when science and design were going to collaborate. I didn’t enter the world of science until practice and I came to it through the environmental thing on remediation. I came in on a funny side door because I was working with environmental engineers which were extremely necessary. After all, there was no way in hell I had the expertise to deal with contaminants in soil. So, that’s how I came into it, and what I got attention for was that environmental engineers were just correcting a fault and cleaning up the mess for corporations. They weren’t looking for social, cultural, or ecological dimensions of remediation. That’s when I said I never want to use remediation, I want to use regeneration. The definition is creating the new (re-prefix is a problem, which I’ve been trying to combat and not use as much) but it still holds a more holistic definition approach.

AN INTERVIEW WITH JULIE BARGMANN

1. Turtle Creek Water Works in Dallas

2. Urban Outfitters Headquarters at the Philadelphia Navy Yard

JULIE BARGMANN

Logan Flowers, Editor of Dichotomy 25:

Do you think that designers, engineers, and architectural movements hindered environmental regeneration? These movements were pushed in design schools but didn’t focus on remediation or resiliency.

Julie Bargmann:

[Architectural movements] were a school within themselves, and they were a world. I’m going to contrast the school of thought—it was form versus awareness or adoption of larger systems at play. People totally started thinking more externally and were gathering their ideas from systems around them, again that’s ecological, social, political, economic, the whole nine yards. Everyone got out of their rabbit holes and thought “WHOA, what is this context that’s working?!” The entire systems thinking changed the entire game. And that’s when I thought ecology and other systems didn’t become isolated things even, you said before, ecology as a component is an aspect of it. Still, no, that’s not an aspect; it’s absolutely integral as a system.

Flowers:

Many academics at design schools are pushing that markets are no longer trending toward sustainability because it’s not a trend. We must always design for sustainability. What’re your thoughts?

Bargmann:

I always argue sustainability—we haven’t arrived until we’ve abolished that word. It’s common sense—I call it common sensibility. It’s one of those things where it had to get a label, like brutalism and everything else, it needed this label to gain any kind of concrete consciousness and legitimacy. We’re still gonna have LEED and the goddamn point system where we have to quantify and monetize points. I don’t think it will go away any time soon, but maybe when it becomes common sense.

Flowers:

Does your work at D.I.R.T. influence your teachings at the University of Virginia? It makes sense in design school because, here, you can do whatever the hell you want. It won’t be built, and the actualization isn’t there.

Bargmann:

Oh, gosh, yes. I don’t like to use high and mighty words like ethics, but it’s underlying everything. The students can’t stand me. I always ask: “Why?” “Who cares, and why?” And they go “UGH,” but we always do things so mindlessly, so I’m kind of annoying. This is where, if in school, I insist on learning the questions to ask. “Who’s in harm’s way?” “What’s at stake?” And “Who is going to benefit?” And this drives students crazy. When they say “people,” I ask, “WHO?!,” They say, “Uhhh, the residents on the eastside,” and I say, “Yes, there we go.”

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Flowers:

To move onto D.I.R.T., how does D.I.R.T. connect and respond to culture, economics, and politics to combat the climate crisis? Whether it’s small tasks or even taking on larger projects, like creating resilient land.

Bargmann:

I have to admit that climate change hasn’t entered my vocabulary. It’s just not in there yet. I’ve been dealing with it for so long, the whole reason I founded D.I.R.T. was to deal with environmental issues, primarily dirt and dirty water, because people are getting poisoned. Landscapes are getting poisoned; there’s gotta be a creative way to deal with this. I feel like maybe in saying that out loud; I’ve been dealing with the environmental crisis that goes all the way back to the 60s and 70s, maybe ill come up to climate change. Hill, a good friend of mine, pointed out to me—she’s an expert on water and climate change—[she] said “Julie there’s going to need to be another [person] that does what you’re doing. Because of the water and sea-level rise, no one is showing groundwater seeping up through the soil that gets capped and covered. Everyone says it’s fine, that’s gonna be a whole other era.”

Flowers:

I’m from the west side of Michigan—we’ve lost beaches, and sand dunes are collapsing—people are concerned. We also have a river that flows into the lake, and the flood plane for that is huge, and the water has risen 10-feet—you can’t go under bridges because the water is so high. This is a battle I can see and feel on a personal level.

Bargmann:

It’s incredible. [That’s what I’m] fascinated by. I was on the original Rebuild by Design competition jury, and that’s when everyone was like, “Okay, we’ll beat everybody up.” “What a bitch.” Now it’s so interesting to see everybody’s response. [With] D.I.R.T., I’ve experienced contamination—there’s a reaction that says bury your head and then there’s addressing it. There’s denial, and there’s addressing it. And I’ve noticed, you used the word “combat” [in relationship to] the climate crisis, but it’s actually “engage” [with] the climate crisis. It’s—come on, you know—it’s change. We’ve got to be smart about this. I can anticipate addressing it more, but like I said, I still have my hand’s full of dirty dirt. But in Detroit, I’m not just looking at dirty dirt on a single site, but city-wide fallowness. I’m completely obsessed with fallowness. You don’t combat depopulation; you engage it. This is the next cycle of the city; let’s deal with it.

JULIE BARGMANN

3. Excavation for Core City Park

4. Core City Park’s walkways being constructed outside of Ochre Bakery

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AN INTERVIEW WITH JULIE BARGMANN

5. Core City Park

7. Core City Park

6. Core City Park & Ochre Bakery

JULIE BARGMANN

Flowers:

I think Detroit realizes that we have a lot of smart people here and a lot of Detroiters also realize that we are enhancing the idea of fixing specific neighborhoods to bring people back in of all races and how to revitalize downtown. Detroit has to own up to what happened, remember the past, but not put it back into place, but move forward. It’s something beautiful to see in Detroit.

Bargmann:

It really is. I’m actually going to come to Detroit and hang out for a while. I’m gonna work on a goddamn book; oh god, I’d rather draw instead. But I’m working in Core City—there’s this incredible developer, he’s this young thing, and he’s doing amazing stuff. Our first conversation he said [that] he owns a lot of land in Core City [and that he’d] like to help conceive of the neighborhood as a park, and I’m like “Who are you?!” I’m trying to get a handle on Parkland. I used to call it “Wildland,” but that’s too scary for people. But the idea is that it’s wild. Still, I worked with Phillip on a park in Core City, that’s where [the] super fabulous Ochre Bakery is, we did a park that opened last May. Philip is charging the few architects and me to look at the neighborhood as a whole and look at the balance between new development, adaptive reuse, and working with who is there and what is there as is. You should put a big old label on it [that says] “AS IS.”

Flowers:

Oh! Tadd Heidgerken, one of Dichotomy’s faculty advisors, designed Ochre Bakery! He was telling me about you, he mentioned that you designed the courtyard.

Bargmann:

Oh! Okay, wow! That’s cool, that’s great, cool. So, yeah, I’m excited.

Flowers:

So, what projects are D.I.R.T. working on in Detroit? Are you actively working on any?

Bargmann:

Core City! Actually, there’s a couple of projects in Core City that are under construction, so the landscape is on hold until structures are in place. One is new, one is another Quonset hut, and the other is adaptive reuse. I think it’s really nice. I think [there’s] a really nice balance between all of those. Maurice Cox, when he was Planning Director, he was so excited about what Philip Kafka is doing because he’s working on a lot of smaller industrial buildings that have been dormant and abandoned, and there are thousands of those in this city. They aren’t all sexy megafauna and ruin-porn that’s getting attention. But you mentioned River Rouge—that’s like 20 years old, which is crazy. It was a whole

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initiative around Y2K and the turn of the century. Bill [William Clay Ford Sr.] was Mr. Sustainable Architecture. He’s crazy—the biggest asshole in the world— egotistical bastard. He’s smart, but not smart enough to know he’s an asshole. He convinced Clay Ford Jr. not to shit on a greenfield, but to do The Rouge, it’s pretty incredible that he got him to do that. [When] William McDonough was the dean at UVA, he grabbed me to be part of the [Rouge] team. I did the overall plan and worked a little bit on the assembly building, but what I got really interested in was the dirty dirt at the coke ovens. That was incredible. The Rouge is when I fell in love with Detroit. It was a dream to work on this icon of the industry, and also to work on something I never had the chance to do: a site with active industry and dormant parts of the site. We were able to work in these, but with remediation and gardens. The environmental group thought we were crazy; they were not on board like Clayton Rugh; they were upset every time I walked in the door. I wanted them to be transparent about the soil. We did these gardens that were visible to the public from Miller Road and were in juxtaposition to the coke ovens and [they are] so poetic. Clayton did the work and gathered data and got good data to go on and did work with remediation findings. There it was, the perfect example of this cycle, and the corporation was willing to be transparent. If you can manufacture a Mustang, you can manufacture healthy soil. And they were like, “OH.” And I always tell the story. In a way, when you look at the project physically, it’s no big deal at all, but with dirt work, I’m always clear about giving part of my lecture here; in this case, changing minds matter. The guy who couldn’t stand me at the beginning of the project, I mean a few months after Clayton Rugh was underway with the remediation gardens. Jerry Amber was his name, and I was on a panel at the Habitat Council together. He was standing up and owning it—like; this is sad. It’s like a lot of my work when you think about it, I only have a handful of built projects to my name, but there are a lot of other design studies that were a pain-in-the-ass and educated developers and corporations. My role in education completely traversed the line of practice. Flowers:

That’s powerful. Someone who is trying to help, find a way to collaborate with people, change their minds within their property, and the world’s property to change the soil and the land.

JULIE BARGMANN

Bargmann:

I mean, I think so, this is transferring the systems thinking. People who are concerned with the site at hand, but when you cast it into greater light, they can be like “OH.” You have to change and inform their criteria for decisions— because that’s what’s fucked up a lot of times. You have to ask what they’re basing [their] decisions on. That can be inane, a lot of times they don’t know better.

Flowers:

What is something that you learned in or from Detroit that you could relate to other projects across the country? Are there any key concepts you can relate?

Bargmann:

I mean, I wrote down a couple of things. There were a couple of things. I have always been obsessed with site histories and respect for them. If someone doesn’t respect the site history, I have a nutty little fit. Site history is where you are a good storyteller and a good listener because that’s where you gather information. When there’s community engagement, I [always] hope it doesn’t go down the bullshit road. When I do community stuff, I want stories. This is how you know the site; even if you think you know it, you don’t as well as you think, that’s where we gain respect for it. For me, Detroit is fantastic. I’m a complete slut for industry; I love working landscapes and working people. I’m from Jersey, don’t give me any bullshit, I grew up on Bruce Springsteen, I just wanna be real because he [Bruce Springsteen] would hunt me down if I don’t. And I have to say that’s why I’m continuing to be drawn to it, everything I’ve learned in Detroit applies to all rust belt cities to a certain degree, there are working landscapes and communities around them. Think about folks, [and their folks] for generations still alive. It’s that, and I’m obsessed with being resourceful. Maybe that’s along with working on landscapes, but I hate fancy pants stuff. It’s kind of not for environmental but maybe ecological reasons that I love reusing material, scrappy, let’s be scrappy. I just love and get so much satisfaction out of; just, I don’t know... the budget. But the park [Core City], the only thing we imported were the trees. Philip Kafka is obsessed with trees; I love this guy. He’s gonna build an urban forest if I have anything to do with it, he’d packed 80 trees in 800-square-feet, he’s nuts I love him. The only thing we imported was that and the slag—the stone dust. We literally dug, and he asked what to do from the ground plane. We knew the old firehouse was there. I asked when it was demolished in the 70s, so I said, “AHA!” They didn’t take it away; they pushed it. So I said, “Let’s dig,” so we dug and brought up beautiful red sandstone. The real

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8. Ford Rouge Plant

10. Ford Rouge Plant

9. Ford Rouge Plant

JULIE BARGMANN

sweet day was when they hauled up the cornerstone that said 1893. Philip said, “HOLY FUCK!” And I said, “AHA BINGO!” We didn’t design or plan that. Philip Kafka. Kafka is a fantastic name, lookup his company—Prince Concepts. He was thrilled to work because of no construction documents; we just did it. We did that sucker in a few months, maybe less, it was ridiculous. So talk about working, there were scrappiness and resourcefulness. Even Urban Outfitters and the reuse of concrete there. [It] was for a woman in Dallas who could have afforded materials from the moon, but I said, “No, can we take up the concrete and reuse it,” and she said, “I love it, try it.” The head of Urban Outfitters said, “I love that; let’s go for it.” So I think we were at 90-percent reuse of all the concrete. I’m just scrappy. Flowers:

In your “Justice from the Ground Up” article, you mentioned toxic imprints from the industry. Is this why you chose to work in Detroit?

Bargmann:

I think, especially since working on the Rouge, Detroit has always been on my radar. My family is from the Midwest, from Ohio—don’t hold it against them. I come from a huge family, and the majority went to Michigan, but from the working world. I went to undergrad in Pittsburgh. I just jumped at the call. I think that, like I said, it was to have finally been working at a time where the industry has always been a cultural icon. Still, it went out of fashion as soon as environmental laws came into play, even the Rouge went into hiding with berms and evergreens planted along Miller Road. I don’t remember the rest of your question.

Flowers: Bargmann:

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You’ve covered it! I went to the next question about the socio and economic justice problem. I have to say I wrote that article and it was for cities, and I wrote another one for them, but it never talked about environmental justice in the dirt, we just kinda did it, I didn’t know it, I just didn’t. I’ve boiled it down to poor people equals poor soils, and that’s unjust ground. A woman I taught for a few years at the University of Minnesota, she said, “Are you going somewhere else with poor people and poor soils?” And I said, “Actually, I am.” I wanted to make a point in that essay because it really is on us, with soil testing and more. The burden is on us. It’s not necessarily in project briefs. It can also get sequestered into my good

AN INTERVIEW WITH JULIE BARGMANN

ole environmental engineers world. Designers don’t understand this stuff, but I taught myself this stuff. I teach my students here [at UVA], and I started teaching them here a couple of decades ago, it looks daunting. Still, it’s not. We need to spatialize that data—environmental engineers kind of spatialize it with dots on the map, but it’s not accessible. And I have to say its really fun to do. It sounds sick, but the thing I’ve found is that one of the biggest things is that you have to deal with neighbors and their perception. You see a factory and site behind chainlink fences, and they think it’s a toxic blag. But it’s not; it’s differentiated. One, you have to tell the cultural history of the factory and the people; kind of change their minds like “Oh, yeah!” And two, you have to say it’s sick, but it’s not sick all over its body, just here, here, here, and here, so let’s be Sympatico and have at this. At the same time, you have to say all this stuff as not to say we’re pulling the wool over your eyes; you have to understand it completely. And I hold the client absolutely accountable. Flowers:

There’s a sense of nostalgia with industry in the Midwest. Whether it’s bullshit or not, how would you work with that, in the feeling that some people genuinely like the industrialism because it brings jobs?

Bargmann:

The question to me is, how do we honor that? How do you deal with the reality of where the factory is, how sick it is, and how is that taking place at the same time you’re honoring it? In regenerating it, that is a form of honoring it. So, it’s really hard to do. You have to pick and choose evidence that elevates and not immortalizes it. Philip Kafka always notes that the 1893 piece of stone comes up, and everyone says we have to put it up in a special area, but it’s like “NO!” put it in the ground. Philip looked up at me and said: “Julie, put it back to work.” And isn’t that fabulous? When I think about the projects I’ve done, with remediation gardens, we had to take some stuff out that was really nasty to be dealt with elsewhere, but I fought like a motherfucker to not have the coke ovens taken down. Because here is our juxtaposition, and the poetic Jux. To show the past work and the present and future generation. I said, “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, don’t take it away.” When we found the foundation of the coke ovens, the historian wanted to do stupid shit with them, and I said: “NO, we are digging them for the marsh, so, leave well enough alone!” So it’s the little pieces of evidence. How do we put them into place, so they are triggers and strong associations? I don’t think there’s anyone from the 1893 hook-and-ladder still

JULIE BARGMANN

alive, who knows, but that would be a trigger for them but not in a precious place. That is my philosophy. To me, when you kind of fantasize about this stuff, that’s when it goes on the wrong side of nostalgia. It’s overly sentimental. Nostalgia is okay if there is [a touch of] melancholy. That word has come onto my radar these days, and I’m a read more about it because I think that’s what we’re dealing with on these sites—a form of melancholy. Flowers:

I think people feel that when you deal with a dirty site or water or ground. It’s common sense to clean it up hopefully, but that speaks to your narrative as well.

Bargmann:

Yup, I’m always trying to talk about remediation that this is the next cycle of remediation. We weren’t cleaning up after ourselves; maybe you are, but it’s the next cycle of industrial heritage.

Flowers:

Do you think you have invented a strategy, whether landscape, architecture or urban? Or is it your background and research from yourself and others to implement this in Detroit and other projects?

Bargmann:

I have to say: I’m a huge fan of collaboration. I’m kind of voracious about wanting to know more stuff, and clearly, remediation technologies are always evolving, so I love mixing it up with environmental engineers-the nerdy things that they are. So, for Detroit, we’re also collaborating with TENXTEN Studio in East Davison Village, and I encouraged them that this botanist and landscaping urban ecologist [is great]. I cannot wait; with the fallow thing, I am dropping my fangs, and I want to know everything about spontaneous vegetation. There’s a lot of talk in landscape management, which I think is going to be a huge thing in Detroit. So any inventions come from my collaborations. I mean, I have my own way of doing things, believe me, [but] I do think that my background in sculpture and art gurgles up a lot. I don’t usually know that, but I think it intuitively does, and I believe heavily in intuition and think its something that’s getting dated out of people. I’m a bit of a lone wolf in school, having students invest in their intuition and not mapping a lot of data, but I think I have really honed in and am still honing the art of working with the existing. It’s like “DUH, this is what I’ve been doing all along!” And I have to say; teaching is something that I have

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AN INTERVIEW WITH JULIE BARGMANN

11. Vintondale Reclamation Park

12. Vintondale Reclamation Park

13. Vintondale Reclamation Park

14. Vintondale Reclamation Park

15. Vintondale Reclamation Park

JULIE BARGMANN

to be aware of what I do and how I do it in order for students to participate in that and become self-aware of their work—working with the existing, that’s part of my resourcefulness. What’s here already? I always talk about a primary act of design as a finding. That’s the primary act. It’s not very sexy to say you’ve found it, but, FUCK IT. Flowers:

Is it costly to regenerate soil?

Bargmann:

It’s a fuck-load of money. It’s millions. That’s what has been the problem, and you know, and that’s why property owners of these sites run away and hide. Then the feds get a hold of it and can’t deal with it, and that, of course, depends on extents and intensity and risks associate, but oof yeah, it’s a lot. I should probably qualify that in a simple and dumb way; of course, the other thing is money. There are ways to deal with it faster that cost more money, but there are different ways to deal with it slower. This is a problem for developers who want to do something ASAP.

Flowers:

When D.I.R.T. or another company caps soil, do you use local soil, or do you import?

Bargmann:

I should say that capping, on the more inexpensive side, is [already] there. It’s when you’re excavating and paying for landfill fees or remediating that its expensive. Capping is popular cause it’s quick and out of sight, but that’s the soul that’s gonna come back and bite us when the soil rises. You look at a lot of parking lots and would be surprised what’s underneath. A couple of things: one, a lot of caps have to be impermeable, so a clay liner, some form of paving, but the main thing is other times when its soil that it’s 2-3-feet deep, where does it come from? The method to the madness is that humans, the receptors or targets, don’t have a pathway and can’t access the contaminants. You’re negating the pathway for contaminants and toxins. Both are doing that, but it’s still there, though.

Flowers:

I know there’s a whole part of urban and landscape design, concerning regeneration and resiliency of lands, that using certain crops and plantings takes away toxins in the soil. Is there ever an issue where you use dozens of types of plantings, and half of them won’t grow or can’t prosper in the Midwestern climate and could work better elsewhere.

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AN INTERVIEW WITH JULIE BARGMANN

Bargmann:

Oh, yea, that’s an issue, if you ever want to read about Phytoremediation, the bible is called “PHYTO.” It’s by Kennan Kirkwood, and it’s to die for. PHYTO explains everything the best—plant palettes and choice of species. Look up Clayton Rugh, who did the Rouge, for Michigan, but Phytoremediation has come a long way. Phyto is not the silver bullet, and if I see any more fields of sunflowers for lead, I’m gonna go postal because it doesn’t work—everyone thinks, “Oh, how poetic.” Luckily, that’s going away a bit, and things like Kennen Kirkwood’s book have gone the right way to say, “Hey, let’s get real about the sensation of Phytoremediation.”

Flowers:

In Detroit, a few weeks ago, there was a huge contaminant spill in the Detroit River. A seawall broke, and contaminants got into the river, so you may need to come back to Detroit to fix things up!

Bargmann:

Yum yum, oh god.

Image Credits 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

D.I.R.T. Studio. (n.d.). Turtle Creek Water Works Park [Photograph]. Retrieved from https://dirtstudio. com/. D.I.R.T. Studio. (n.d.). Urban Outfitters Headquarters at the Philadelphia Navy Yard [Photograph]. Retrieved from https://dirtstudio.com/. Prince Concepts. (n.d.). Core City Park [Photograph]. Retrieved from http://www.princeconcepts.com/ core-city-park. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ring, H. (2006, October 2). Ford Rouge Plant, Dearborn, MI. [Photograph]. Retrieved from https:// archinect.com/features/article/45200/d-i-r-t-studio. Ibid. D.I.R.T. Studio. (n.d.). Ford River Rouge. [Photograph]. Retrieved from https://dirtstudio.com/. D.I.R.T. Studio. (n.d.). Vintondale Reclamation Park. [Photograph]. Retrieved from https://dirtstudio. com/. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid.

126 128 130 132 134 Gautam Palav

Neo-Agrarianism Gautam Palav is one of the founding principles of Workshop—198, a research and design collaborative focused on solving complex urban issues. He graduated from the Indian Education Society’s College of Architecture in 2013 and did his Master in Architecture from Arizona State University, graduating in 2016. He has previously worked for Studio Mumbai Architects, Bijoy Jain in Mumbai, Sou Fujimoto Architects in Tokyo, and Utile, Inc. in Boston. Gautam is currently working as a project architect at Site Practice in Mumbai. He is interested in addressing the needs of historic cities in their current context. Gautam is a visiting faculty at the Indian Education Society’s College of Architecture, where he teaches a class on speculative urbanisms, which explores the possibility of ‘what-if ’ scenarios, and how they would unravel to make our immediate space more dynamic, inclusive of all, adaptive and flexible.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

GAUTAM PALAV

Buckminster Fuller developed the term Ephermalization, which examined the notion that technology will allow us to do “more and more with less and less until eventually, you can do everything with nothing.” In our pursuit to maximize our output, we have failed to recognize the real cost of our dreams. Cities cover only two percent of the world’s land surface, but at the same time, they consume over seventy-five percent of the earth’s material resources1. The resources,1 which go into making our cities livable, do not compare to the negative impact we have on our biome. A lot of people who are displeased with perpetual traffic gridlocks, high pollution, the steep cost of urban living, and crowded streets are in a state of burnout, raising the question—Is the city experience desirable anymore? Around 1995, Andrea Branzi defined the phrase weak-urbanization,2 which explored the hybridization between town and country. Several years have passed since, but the current trend has focused mainly on urbanization. On the contrary, the produce we eat gets grown far away from our urban centers, increasing our dependence on fossil fuels. It is a dire need of time to think posturban. There is a great deal of potential to evoke an ad-hoc method of development, which is the right mix of urban and rural at the same time. The blurring of urban-rural dichotomy holds the key to ease the negative impact we have on the cities deemed irreparable. Through the evolution of technology, the ability to grow and cultivate food is becoming increasingly more efficient. Artificial intelligence is addressing the problems

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of traditional farming practices by reducing its impact on the environment and improving the efficiency of food production. Integrating artificial intelligence with hydroponics will result in smarter farms, eliminating the need for the sprawling landscape of a traditional farm. Even with a smaller, more efficient footprint, a farmer can grow a hundred times more greens per square foot than the average industrial farm. By moving agriculture into our cities, we can also reduce our dependence on ‘carbonform.’ Imagining a speculative scenario where moving agriculture into our cities would reduce our dependence on fossil fuels. No longer will we transport food from the far reaches of the countryside to our consumers in cities. Seasonal produce, traditionally grown on the coasts, can be grown year-round in our basements and on our roofs. We can address the problems of traditional farming practices by reducing its impact on the environment and improving the efficiency of food production. This approach can increase plant life in cities. While many of the effects that technology has on agriculture occur away from the traditional consumer, there are also ways in which they will interact directly with food production. Advances are being made to create a world “where DNA analysis, artificial intelligence, and food databases are combined for reaching tailor-made nutritional patterns.” These designed meal plans can be synchronized with a household farming system that can predict dietary patterns and grow in order to match future demand. This provides user control over their personal food production

NEO-AGRARIANISM

Small and Sculpted Studio Apartment / Catseye Bay Design The phrase ‘You are what you eat’ can be more appropriate if you have control over what you grow.

and increases agricultural efficiency. Moreover, with a diminished connection to nature, the increasing pressure on urban space, and the ubiquitous technological presence and demand it places upon us, we have less opportunity to de-stress and regenerate our mental and physical energy.3 Biophilia is our living space that has proven to counters the impact of alienation by introducing moments of ‘Slowness’ in our fastpaced urban life. Incorporating nature into the built environment is not just a luxury, but a sound economic investment in health and productivity, based on well-researched neurological and

physiological evidence. The push towards a kitchen-less house in the early 1900s came from the need to liberate the housewife from household chores and enable her more freedom and time. Today in the western world, the idea of a housewife is quite outdated; however, how could changing the nature of kitchens support the bettering of other issues, for example, climate change. Is there a design or a system that would allow us to live closer to self-sufficiency? Can we bring soil right in our apartments and grow our own produce?

GAUTAM PALAV

Small and Sculpted Studio Apartment / Catseye Bay Design

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NEO-AGRARIANISM

Deaconry Bethanien / E2A Andrea Branzi defined the term weak urbanization around 1995, which explored the hybridization between town and country.

GAUTAM PALAV

Delivered food is not sustainable; it produces emissions and is heavily reliant on single-use packaging. How could cooking become more accessible and engaging throughout the city? Could kitchens include micro gardens? The idea of widespread “microfarms” has the potential to be profitable, but also to shift the bulk of production from large scale industry to small scale local business. Shared kitchen and gardens help organize the production and consumption of dichotomy. Creating more room for agriculture into our cities would reduce the negative impact we have on our biome. The introduction of versatile crops would benefit local ecosystems, enabling consumers to buy closer to the source, and tackle modern alienation about the food industry. Shared groceries, common cooking equipment, and regulated waste disposal norms should be a way forward. Waste is the failure of imagination.4 Neo-agrarianism seeks to empower us as individuals to help bring a change in our lifestyle, which is ethically correct and much required in contemporary times. In the United States, agriculture accounts for 80 percent of the nation’s consumptive water use.5 Through the integration of hydroponics, we can dramatically reduce this number. Smart farming technologies also reduce water pollution that is frequently associated with traditional agriculture. Drinking water for many residents near farming communities contains dangerous amounts of nitrate and coliform bacteria, which can be attributed to the fertilizer and manure used in agriculture.6 Self-contained hydroponic systems operate on a closed-loop system and do not use

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these fertilizers or pesticides. Automated sensors have allowed these hydroponic farms the ability to track plant health before any visually recognizable issues have arisen. Another significant benefit of transitioning to hydroponic farming is the control obtained overcrop fertilization. The heavy use of fertilizers is a significant contributor to fine-particulate air pollution in much of the United States.7 It takes up to 300 years for one inch of agricultural topsoil to form, soil that is lost is essentially irreplaceable, bringing soil in our own apartments to grow our own produce should be the way forward. Organic byproducts, which we typically discard as waste, can be used as homemade fertilizer to nurture our soil. Farming is not only becoming more efficient but getting smarter and cleaner. The rural-urban dichotomy highlights the inherently lacking paleo consumption habits of our better past. We have profusely leapfrogged, with a need to take a footstep back to be able to step forward into the future. Our reliance on carbon form has been densely woven in our daily lives and to reject it entirely now, would be a foolish act though a middle ground compromise should be the way forward. Koetter and Rowe envisioned the collage city—a city of fragments from the past, present, and future. We should not dream of a utopia, but a place where we are less dependent on the carbon form if not wholly. The potential of the ‘Neo-agrarianism’ holds the key to negate the effects our actions have on our soil. The rural can be urban, and the urban can be rural—at least temporarily.

NEO-AGRARIANISM

Reinterpretation of Edward Hopper’s office in a small city A vegetative biophilic intervention—which counters the impact of alienation by introducing moments of ‘Slowness’ in our fast-paced urban life.

GAUTAM PALAV

Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

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UN Environment Annual Report 2016. Branzi, Andrea. “For a Post-Environmentalism: Seven Suggestions for a New Athens Charter and The Weak Metropolis.” In Ecological Urbanism, 146–56. Lars Muller Publishers, 2016. “Biophilic Design Benefits: Inside Plants.” Accessed January 16, 2020. https://www.insideplants.net/ biophilic-design-benefits. McMaster, Douglas “TEDxISM.” TEDx Talks. November 11, 2019. Schaible, Glenn, and Marcel Aillery. Irrigation & Water Use. January 27, 2020. http://www.ers.usda.gov/ topics/farm-practices-management/irrigation-water-use/ Wang, Jackie , Nicole Tyau, and Chelsea Rae Ybanez. “Farming Contaminates Water.” January 15, 2020. http://www.thecalifornian.com/story/news/2017/08/15/water-near-farms-often-contaminated-nitratescoliform-bacteria/571000001/ Lee, Kyu. “A Major Source of Air Pollution: Farms.” December 16, 2019. http://www.earth.columbia.edu/ articles/view/3281

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Dana Matouk

Soil of Destiny Dana Matouk is an architect, studied architecture in Homs, Syria, and completed her masters and PhD in architecture at Warsaw University of Technology, receiving a PhD diploma with honors for her dissertation. She devoted her doctoral dissertation for fate of Syrian Cultural Heritage during ongoing conflict. She dedicated her MSc studies and her MSc diploma to a Syrian archaeologist who died protecting the ruins. Dana now teaches at both Warsaw University of Technology, Faculty of Architecture and Vistula Private University, Faculty of Architecture. Dana is also a photographer who won a photography competition in Aleppo, Syria in 2012, a professional swimmer, boxer, she loves music, especially old school songs, she adores nature and animals. Dana’s dream is to open a shelter for kittens.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

DANA MATOUK

Migrations have always been one of the most recognizable types of events since the beginning of time. Around two hundred thousand years ago, the first migration took place, when the Old Stone Age groups started their migration journey from Africa and reached the Levant, and particularly the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, around 100,000 years ago. From that point, they spread to different locations. At that time, migrations happened due to purely natural causes, lack of food, lack of water, seeking better land, or better accommodation. Nowadays, migrations are happening for different reasons; political unrest, growing levels of violence, chemical weapons, dictatorships, and poverty. The name “refugee” is the most common term we encounter in descriptions of migrations today, because of the political borders between countries.

journeys, and their struggle. However, I never understood really how their life is affected by being away from their families and homes, away from their homelands, away from their soil. What is a homeland anyway? What is the definition of home? And why are we so attached to our lands... to our soil? Why are people willing to work, fight, and die for it or emigrate from it?

I was born and raised in a place which is known as the Cradle of the Civilization, where the agricultural revolution started, where the first alphabet in the world was created, where the first musical note was written.....where the three monotheistic religions were born. But...

Is it just I or this Stockholm syndrome affects all migrants? Do they feel nostalgic and in love with the place they were born in once they leave? Is it because of memories? Are we defined by our memories? Or, as soon as we make new memories in a new place, we will be attached to the new soil?

Does it matter how old, how ancient, or how rich your homeland is? In my case, it was enough to be born in that place, and by default, I was attached to that land... Your roots started from there, no matter how much you deny it, you are the child of that soil, and your personality was touched by the local traditions. I never predicted that I could end up as a refugee in a different country. I’ve always read about refugees, their lives, their emigrational

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The war started around ten years ago, and each year was worse than the previous one. The decision to leave wasn’t easy, living in fear and under siege somehow was manageable, you never know how much strength our little bodies have, how much they could adapt to bad and worse situations, but seeing a dark future dominated with fear and death was our main obsession. That’s when my family and I decided to leave the country.

Memories. Maybe it’s a curse, but loving photography and having a photographic memory forced me to carry my camera where ever I go, I documented most of my adult life in pictures. A few years later, I was tortured by the memories dwelling in those pictures. My first digital camera was a gift from my uncle, I

SOIL OF DESTINY

Randa, Maha, Nahla, Imad The column which survived the war

My painting and I

was pampered by him, but I also used to pamper him when I was a little girl with drawings or any handicraft I could make. He always accepted those gifts with a smile; he even added a strong wooden frame to one of the paintings and hung it on the wall of his room at my grandparents’ house.

one of them. The building which I spent most of my childhood days was destroyed, the roof had collapsed, and most of the walls fell down, no windows, no doors, and no balcony. The only thing which remained intact is the entrance column with the names of my aunts, uncle, and my mom engraved on it. Those names were probably engraved there for more than 40 years.

The siege was finally over; people who could escape to safer places could finally go back to their properties. Most of these houses were destroyed because of the fierce battles inside the city. Unfortunately, my grandparents’ house was

The house was completely destroyed, but the biggest surprise was finding my old painting under the ruins of my uncle’s bedroom walls, not even scratched. It was a beautiful miracle. I couldn’t believe my eyes; too many contradicting emotions overwhelmed me at the same time. I

DANA MATOUK

Mom’s accordion was found under the ruins. It was given to her by my grandfather.

was happy, sad, surprised, and grateful! I felt like a ten years old child again! For some of my “refugee” friends, the hardest thing was to close the door to their house while leaving, some of them wanted to return home since the moment they arrived in another country, and some of them felt guilty for leaving their countries in the days when one had to stay and fight for its prosperity and independence. For me, the hardest thing was imagining the house empty; for many years, that home was the meeting point for the whole family, everyone loved the cozy house with warm-colored furniture. The walls were decorated by my father’s paintings, the big

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surrounding garden full of trees like an oasis in the middle of the desert, and even stray cats gave birth among the bushes. In that place, I felt safe even in the worst days of the war- That house witnessed my successes and my failures, and for me, this is the homeland, and all my nostalgia is for that particular spot on Earth. I still remember the moment when I took this picture in my home in 2012 after one year of the war. It sounds strange, I know, but the fact that I lived for five years in a heavy war zone makes one year of war sound like nothing. The photo

SOIL OF DESTINY

Beauty never dies

Grandparent’s house

shows my mom’s hand pouring a handful of soil to my little cousin’s hand. I wrote on it, “The soil of my homeland is precious.” I guess from that moment, I knew that whatever happens, this soil will be the most precious one to my heart, and this is the soil that I will be working for hard to see it shine again.

beauty of my homeland in the pictures I took, even or maybe especially the pictures showing the ruins and destruction of my country. I named one of these pictures, “Beauty Never Dies.” Shouldn’t these beautiful flowers, blooming on the devastated building, be a harbinger of rebirth, a harbinger of the restoration of life, order, and beauty to my country, which is in decline?

I am a proud descendant of this group of humans who appeared as immigrants in the Levant more than a hundred thousand years ago. They settled there and found their place on Earth.

In the end, you may notice that I didn’t disclose the name of my country...Well.. does it really matter which land I came from?

But today I am a refugee and an immigrant in a new country., and every day I try to see the

All countries are the same, and we humans have the ability and strength to create great cities, not

DANA MATOUK

The shadow and flowers of a pomegranate tree on the soil of my house

ruins, to create beauty instead of ugliness, to give happiness instead of despair. Yes, we humans. Yes, we, the people. Yes, we can.

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Georgia Klefti

The Line Georgia Klefti was born in Cyprus, a small island in the Mediterranean sea. Growing up, she found herself curious about the world around her while being naturally inclined towards the arts and sciences. Architecture became the profession which would reflect herself best. She completed her Architecture degree at the University of Edinburgh where she will also pursue her Master studies. During her studies she developed an interest in using digital sensing and digital fabrication techniques to further explore urban public spaces. Furthermore, sustainable architecture is something she is also interested in since she believes architecture should be respectful to the city’s existing fabric and values its vital role in enhancing and sheltering social interaction. Also, she explored ways in which architecture can be used for conflict resolution by bringing people together. Born and raised in Cyprus she early became aware of political conflict and propaganda. The Turkish invasion of 1974 left her island divided and she hopes that one day she will live to see the problem resolved.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

GEORGIA KLEFTI

It always seemed odd to me that they did not let me draw the line. It was in every history book, in every map, but could not be drawn on my country’s flag. The violent Turkish invasion of 1974 left a long meandering line segregating the island from East to West. Since then, Turkish-Cypriots and GreekCypriots are separated by a hundred- and eightykilometres long barbed wire, deeply ingrained in the country’s soil. The wire’s sharp edges are forcefully rooted in the ground, hurting anything that dares to touch them. But they cannot impede the wind that teasingly moves the soil from one side to the other, indifferent to any military force. I remember asking my grandfather about the occupied site. I wanted to know everything, what it was like, what his last memory was, how hard it was to leave it all behind. My inquisitive mind absorbed every single detail he shared, each enriching an imaginary reality that was longawaiting to be completed. One sunny afternoon he gathered a few of the remnants he was keeping. A set of earrings, old coins, and a disassembled photo album rested on the table. Next to them, a glass jar filled with soil. How peculiar, I thought, treating soil like a relic – how could one differentiate between grains of soil resting only a few meters against each other? It was years later that I realized; that soil came from earth fed with love, anger, agony, and blood – it was different. Every year, thousands of refugees visiting their homes are taking small samples with them in glass jars. Soil as embodied memory, trapped into containers as fragile as their hearts, hearts

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which never beat the same since that Saturday. Perhaps, the soil has some magic power, bringing the ghosts of memory back to life. In 2019 I decided to visit the occupied side. Overflowed with excitement and curiosity, I drove towards the crossing point. As I was approaching, the wire fence became more unwelcoming, contradicting the peacefulness of the scenery. I finally saw the line, the line standing to this day as a reminder of the brutal eradication of thousands of Cypriots. There are three forces guarding it: Greek-Cypriot and Turkish-Cypriot, at each end, divided by the United Nations in the middle. Covered in a cold sweat, I could hear my heart skipping a beat in a brisk but consistent rhythm. “ID check.” In a split of a second, I am overflowed with a plethora of emotions. I wanted to tell them how the wire nets did not make any sense, about the 200,000 refugees, how 2,000 people are still missing; I wanted to tell them about the soil in the jar. Instead, I just handed them my ID, accepting their authority. A wave of defeat overwhelmed me, along with a sense of shame and guilt. As soon as the check was completed, the car began moving closer to the other side. But why was I overflowed with nostalgia for something I have never seen? My grandfather always used to tell me stories about Famagusta. The “magical city of Cyprus.” The city where Shakespeare based Othello and where Elizabeth Taylor used to spend her summer holidays. Never-ending golden sandy bays with crystal clear blue waters. A city is overflowing with history, culture, and life. As

THE LINE

Part of Famagusta’s seafront became a ghost town; frozen in time since 1974.

soon as I stepped on the ground, shivers crawled up from the soil to my body, replacing any trait of excitement I used to have. Along the road laid abandoned houses, destroyed and stripped out of life. A ghost city frozen in time. The vegetation was growing out of control, and the deserted houses were now reclaimed by the plants. The ruins were screaming in silence; the scars of the war were wide open. I kneeled down and ran my fingers through the soil, remembering the glass jar.

Dichotomy had always been a part of the conversation. ‘Let’s just divide the island.’ ‘Turkish Cypriots on one site, Greek-Cypriots on the other; let’s just be done with this already.’ But how can you separate, how can you divide, how can you dichotomize? Life in the wounded island of the Mediterranean forced me to become familiar with these ideas. Yet, the daisy seeds carried by the wind invite peace and do not know boundaries; the bees do not distinguish between ‘Turkish’ and ‘Greek’ flowers; the sun does not stop shining across the wire nets.

GEORGIA KLEFTI

The Cypriot Flag

For my grandfather and all the other people who lived there, the soil was a symbol of grief but also hope; hope that they would live to see the longing day of return. I lifted some soil up and then let it fall swiftly back to the ground. Yet, my grandfather, amongst others, never lived to see the anticipated day of return. As I headed back, I went through the check one more time. Using the slightest energy I had left, I took a last glimpse through my rear-view mirror. The three forces were hesitantly blending into one; minute before they disappeared completely into the horizon. There are no two sides. There is no line.

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THE LINE

Abandoned buildings can be seen along the road, violently affected by the passage of time. Plants are now the residents of these houses.

150 152 154 156

Manuel Garza

Familiar Territories –Invisible Infrastructures Manu Garza was born in Brownsville, Texas; received his Professional BArch in 2002 at the University of Detroit Mercy in Detroit, MI. Work experience includes; Albert Kahn Associates in Detroit, MI. Morris Adjmi Architects (formerly Aldo Rossi studio di architettura) in NYC. He has exhibited work at the Detroit Institute of Arts, the Art Gallery of Windsor and for Archilab in France. Guest critique at Pratt Institute, the New School, City College of New York, Marywood University, Cranbrook Academy of Art, University of Detroit, Lawrence Tech, NJIT, NYIT, and Facultad de Arquitectura Cinco de Mayo in Oaxacam, Mexico. Currently teaches studio and design as an Adjunct Professor with the New York Institute of Technology (NYIT) in Long Island, NY. For the last 8 years he has been leading thesis and research studios with a focus on Latin America countries. Studio topics have explored infrastructural conditions such as Water in Peru and Mexico City, Adaptive Reuse strategies in Cuba, and Artisan Collaborations in Oaxaca. The exchanges generated in these academic studios have helped inform his professional practice, et al. collaborative. He is co-founder and head of the architectural and design research practice based in Brooklyn, NY.  Its team represents a unique combination of talents, professional backgrounds, passions and insights. et al. approaches each project as an opportunity to collaborate with a client, an opportunity to define and appropriately respond to a specific goal. Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

MANUEL GARZA

When designing a project, I usually look for something on the site, a point of departure for an idea, or an existing condition of some kind. Something that stabilizes my design intent, something that anchors a concept and allows me to take a position within the given framework. SOIL is a constant in an architectural investigation. However, the relationship to soil goes beyond the foundation of architecture. It is a familiar infrastructure, yet it is invisible to most people. SOIL has been witness to exploration, surveying, selling, digging, decay, contamination. The physical erosion of soil, rock, and earth’s surfaces re-shapes our environment. For instance - just miles from where I grew up, flooding and climate change cause constant erosion of soil along the river banks of the Rio Grande. These changes occurring today, however, go beyond natural ecological processes. They are carried over from the region’s negotiated histories, the impact of evolving cultural perception, and the shifting policy-shaping investment in infrastructure or lack thereof. Just north of Texas’ border with Mexico, I was born and raised - on U.S. SOIL. My parents had immigrated there just before my brother, and I was born, having been raised with the rest of my extended family on the other side of the border - on Mexican SOIL. In between, a natural and political boundary extends a 1,200 mile stretch of river border known by many locals as El Rio Bravo or Furious River, known to most others as the Rio Grande. My curiosity around soil stems

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back to a conversation I had with my father. He told me about his great uncle - who post-Mexican Revolution was involved with the redistribution of land as ejidos. “Post Porfiriato, la tierra les pertence a todos.” The soil belongs to everyone, farmed communally under a system supported by the state. It’s amazing to imagine that during this time, large swaths of U.S. territory, including my home state of Texas, belonged to Mexico. During U.S. Western Expansion, power dynamics, politics, and historical treaties would soon erode the generational economic security of ejidos in the region. A new Texas border was drawn; the center of the Rio Grand(e) was straddled by new communities. These colonies, informal shantytowns, characteristically defined by their lack of infrastructure, have been marginalized and, to this day, remain a stigma in Urbanism despite their contributions to the local economy. In South Texas, many people are employed either in the agribusiness sector or the maquiladora, manufacturing, and construction. The entire U.S. has benefited from the local labor and the surrounding land, think grapefruit, pecans - Rich SOIL. The soil of this region has been, tended to, nurtured and sacrificed for. Its beaches and its floodplain landscape also happen to make it a perfect paradise for migrating bird species and visitors from the north alike. Those employed in construction make possible the system of highways and byways that makes a trade with our neighbors possible. Much of Texas infrastructure is composed

FAMILIAR TERRITORIES – INVISIBLE INFRASTRUCTURES

Mexican soil on American soil

of rock quarry aggregate imported from Mexico. Post floods and erosion, the U.S. Border riverbank is maintained using Mexican aggregates. Each day my father’s company imports approximately 600 tons of aggregate material from Northern Mexico to build the vast network of roads, highways, interstates, retaining walls and riverbanks in the U.S. His aggregate processing plant crushes gravel and rock quarry aggregate at a rate of 300 tons per hour or 3,0000 tons per day. All materials are designed to specified dimensions with various grades of compacting - each road reflecting a map of its conditions. Paved roads allow for connectivity. They represent economic stability, prosperity, and future development. Communities with unpaved roads, however, lack connectivity. They result in the low economic presence and ultimately have limited futures. Politics and power determine where those roads get built. Paved Roads connect the rural to the urban. If you haven’t experienced a lack of infrastructure,

you don’t notice that it exists at all. The invisible infrastructure made possible by SOIL and other composites has become visible to me. From Brownsville to Progresso, it’s possible to see the impact infrastructure has had on the development and growth of smaller communities in between. I remember when I was young, the one hour Sunday drive between the two cities with my dad. Looking out the window, one could observe long stretches of farmland, “Mis peidras se usaron en este proyecto” It was the aggregate that he imported that paved these roads. Now when I visit, and we take the same Sunday drive, patchwork of commercial and residential developments are connecting the cities to the larger Rio Grande Valley. Soil and Mexican aggregate made this possible; symbiotic relationships occur only through a built network of paved roads and highways.

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Border farm road

Unpaved

Thanks to my family, I have always understood the river as shared ecological territory between two countries, not as a dividing wall. To me, the river wasn’t a border, but a living infrastructure that makes it possible for many to build a life in the region. A transborder socio-cultural region. Now I see roads this way too, the exchange.

As infrastructure takes center stage in today’s political debates, we must continue to remind our local and federal officials the importance of maintaining and expanding infrastructure with considerations for marginalized communities and the planets well being. We can anticipate changes with new EV technology and driverless cars, what impact will this new infrastructure have on our communities? Can we begin to imagine a smarter infrastructure? I see an opportunity for the integration of landscape, architecture, and ecology all layered and connected “infrastructure” I see resilient, reduced carbon thinking applied to material technology, I see how my father’s roads have connected the region, I see my father’s impact in the preservation of our countries’

Without intention or perhaps as fate would have it, SOIL is now the foundation for much of what I do as an architect. Understanding SOIL is integral to understanding site, context, and environmental conditions. How do we, as architects, practice looking beyond the surface? How do we look at soil infrastructure, built environment, and understand the people?

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Raw aggregate material: various grades

Guadalupe Catarino Garza Torres – my foundation and connection to the soil

riverbanks from erosion. I also see how these roads have divided us. I see policy connecting some and not others. The land is vast, and the soil belongs to everyone.

ONE SOIL.

As architects, we take pride in the aesthetics of building environments, exterior, and within. Our work is made possible by infrastructure that allows for the flow of people and materials that compose and frame our work. However, as architects and designers, our responsibility and opportunity are to prevent erosion of power, of dignity, of soil. Open your eyes to the invisible infrastructure. We can learn a lesson from observing these systems at work. We should design for inclusivity. Design against erosion.

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Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

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“The colonias of the Mexican border: Paving the way”. The Economist. 398 (8718). Economist Intelligence Unit N.A. Incorporated. January 27, 2011. p. 30 (US). Retrieved October 31, 2019. Verheijen, Marc. Infratecture: Infrastructure by Design, 2015 Weber, John, 1978-. From South Texas to the nation : the exploitation of Mexican labor in the twentieth century. Chapel Hill. ISBN 9781469625256. OCLC 921988476 Cavazos, Nora Lisa (August 2014). “BORDERLANDS OF THE RIO GRANDE VALLEY: WHERE TWO WORLDS BECOME ONE” (PDF). Texas State University. “The Garza Revolution; A Battle Fought Across The Rio Grande. The Insurgents Make A Stand On United States Soil -- Capt. Hardie Safe And Likely To Be Heard Of Soon -- No Word From Capt. Bourke”. The New York Times. December 28, 1891.

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158 160 162 164 166 168 170 172 174 176 178 180 182 184 Nwabisa Madyibi

Roots or Routes Madyibi is a South African junior architect with a keen interest in how innovation makes things ‘smarter’ and how African cultural identities respond to it. She has represented South Africa at the United Nations RIBA International Student Charette in London (2017) endorsed by the Commonwealth Association of Architects (CAA), has been awarded the SAIA Future Architects award (2017), and is a Golden Key Honours recipient.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

NWABISA MADYIBI

“Holey space has different relations to nomadic smooth and State striated space. Cave-dwelling, earth-boring tunnellers are only imperfectly controlled by the State, and often have allied with nomads and with peasants in revolts against centralized authority. Thus the machinic phylum explored in holey space connects with smooth space to form rhizomes, while it is conjugated (blocked) by State striation.” - Mark Bonta and John Protevi

into a struggle between rootedness (belonging) or routedness (traveling, perhaps like water) to soil (from a place). I explore this metaphor around an abandoned quarry in a contentious peri-urban scape. Where the people of the soil believe they have been uprooted, and the soil is in a constant state of unrest around this quarry. Introduction

A thread among post-apartheid accounts of colonial architecture, from the perspective of those who feel disconnected from colonial cities, is the language of a striated power scope that keeps the colonised as ‘other.’ This idea is implied in the works of Gilles Deleuze. Deleuze describes suburban, and state-space as characterized by striation and homogeneity. This is different from nomadic space, which is heterogeneous. The two top images, on the next page, are heterogeneous landscapes of productivity. The left image is a refinery, and the right image is an urban slum. The visual complexity of the various rhythms and scales of elements align with the rhythms of holey space.1 They work together, forming a similar visual dynamic. Both images convey architectures of consumption and production. However, one is a clear infrastructure that produces a product while the other produces an urban condition of density. The claustrophobia of the elements makes a playground. I am deeply intrigued by this memory of ‘otherness.’ As you read, you will find various manipulations of this abstract language, and ideas,

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Currently, public awareness of social and economic inequity has led to protests where people question the traditional notions of power and express a desire to disrupt the status quo within the fringes of Cape Town, specifically in Dunoon. From a theoretical standpoint, this social upheaval is closely linked to a human condition that sees itself directly anchored to a landscape, physically and metaphysically. The protests on the peri-urban fringes of Cape Town, specifically in Dunoon (1), demanding land reform to make way for more housing, reveal the idea of entitlement from the perspective of being rooted in a place. This echoes the sentiments of Lefebvre,2 which is to say that the social revolution in the built environment is rather more productively confronted as an ecological issue rather than a political one. To add to the broad discussion of making architecture within contentious environments of this nature, this paper aims to initially argue by relating the abstract theoretical ideas of rootedness and ownership as resource ownership and value. This is most clearly shown by the physical phenomenon of quarrying. It considers

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Dunoon township and the peculiarities of its urbanisation around a quarry, which is perceived to be a wasteful cesspit, as a means of intervention to manage it as a value-adding resource to the area—turning the quarry towards routedness. It does this by preoccupying itself with the irony of the growing scarcity of water and an increase in polluted water in large borrowing pits - such as Dunoon’s quarry. This project contributes to understanding the ways of approaching large polluted water bodies in waterscarce environments. This paper is marked by an interest in the entrepreneurial Zeitgeist of Dunoon. The research began with an exploration of navigating towards routedness in Dunoon township. Or more clearly explored as shared public space and anarchic ways of making as opposed to agreed space, which emphasises the need for ownership. This paper begins with a background in the dichotomies of Dunoon. It then analyses the quarry, the urbanity around the quarry, and the recent or more prominent architectural interventions in the area. “As a picture of the urban future, Lagos is fascinating only if you’re able to leave it. After just a few days in the city’s slums, it is hard to maintain Koolhaas’s intellectual excitement. What he calls ‘self-organization’ is simply a collective adaptation to extreme hardship. Traffic pileups lead to ‘improvised conditions’ because there is no other way for most people in Lagos to scratch out a living than to sell on the street

Nearly 1000 protesters make their way across the N1 at Century City towards the station on their way into town demanding their own land from the city. Photo: Thomas Holder/EWN. (2016)

… The impulse to look at an ‘apparently burning garbage heap’ and see an ‘urban phenomenon,’ and then make it the raw material of an elaborate aesthetic construct, is not so different from the more common impulse not to look at all.” Packer 2006:66. Part 1: Soil Dunoon - a hybrid ‘other’ presence Dunoon is known to be a holding ground or point of transit where many foreigners wait before receiving their passports or visas for permanent residency. Dunoon is a township on the north-west fringe of Cape Town with a growing population resulting from urbanisation. Though decentralised, the land is extremely valuable because of its proximity and connectedness to the CBD. However, the land cannot bring value to the civilians unless they can claim ownership of it—which is quite a feat. In fact, it is believed by the public that foreign

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Productive-scape

Projected future of Dunoon’s yet to be built fabric

Beauty in visual complexity found in merging two conventionally unattractive productive scapes

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The beginnings of an oasis Initial photo collage of how to approach the quarry

NWABISA MADYIBI

Roots make En routes

A pile of charred rubbish blocks a busy intersection in Dunoon. Photo: Barbara Maregele (2016)

investors are buying a property in Dunoon and developing Dunoon’s original RDP houses into mid-rise accommodation to be rented out for at affordable rates for a short stay. Much of this development is happening illegally and informally. Local builders are used, and construction occurs without a single drawing on-site.4 Dunoon was a township that was a blueprint for the rainbow nation of South Africa as the first planned social housing area after apartheid, with basic services and infrastructure made available to the people that would occupy that area. Those people being, people who see themselves as of the soil (South Africans) and people of African soil, who are seen as foreigners to South Africans. Unfortunately, the rainbow nation in 2020 is still unequal, Dunoon is riddled with a history of the worst cases of xenophobic attacks in the Western Cape and one of its most dangerous townships to date.

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A loose history of Dunoon’s surface mining The earliest found records of Dunoon’s land ownership date back to 1832 (title deeds). The collection of portions made up Farm 212. The farm was divided according to the most productive purposes for land use, such as sand mining on portion 14 and grazing east of it on portion 36. Milnerton PTY LTD owned the farm. By 1838, the quarry had already long been mined. However, the vegetation at the basin suggests it was not entirely bedrock. From GIS imagery, we can deduce that the farm was initially mined for sand, used for development, and then further excavated and used for the road aggregate to make the N7, which is complete in the 1953 imagery. Material Benefit A story of resources and benefit in Dunoon Routed material value. The site embodies a story of material value that migrates towards privileging connectivity. The observation that portions 6, 8, and below were sectioned off for sand mining reveals the material that brought the most benefit to Dunoon at this time was construction sand. This migrated towards road aggregate once the bedrock was mined. The road aggregate was used to make the N7 – connecting Dunoon to Cape Town. The urban value enhancement migrated from materials bound to a place, towards connectivity, routedness. By this mark of modernity, the perception of place on-site changed profoundly from that of

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Map showing routes (major and minor roads), general development and inland open water sources in relation to each other with emphasis on the N7 and nearby suburbs giving work opportunities to Dunoon residents.

an autonomous, introverted, and transcendental notion that integrates elements of nature, culture, and man’s individual beliefs into a unique ensemble, to one that privileges connectivity with other locations (Mitra šinović, 2006: 53). Subsequently, the items that brought value to Dunoon had migrated towards foreign materials. In 1995, Dunoon’s social housing scheme, organised in a cul-de-sac urban typology, was what was valuable for the whole country as it

marked a new era in social housing for the new South Africa. Dunoon’s proximity to Cape Town, opportunities, and access to a major route made it incredibly practical and sought after. For this reason, this area was quick to be urbanised. During this time, the quarry became walled off. The aftermath of this rapid urbanisation was that much of the urban activity in Dunoon was not monitored. The unfortunate result is the degradation of resources and greater dependence on imports to improve the value of the landscape.

NWABISA MADYIBI

2014. Source: When in Dunoon - Travel Journals. (2017)

2030. Dunoon’s estimated future (based on current illegal building practices). Source: Learning from a potato – IAAC Blog. (2011).

Part 2: Water Studies on the quarry water Outdated dichotomy? Castells and Portes state, “There is no clearcut duality between a formal and an informal sector, but a series of complex interactions that establish distinct relationships between the economy and the state” (Castells et al. 1989). Dunoon’s economic sector is heavily influenced by the people’s ability to own the land they

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1839 surveyor general plan of Farm 212 and (below) a speculative collage of the low-tech tools used from 1839 -1953 to mine Dunoon’s road aggregate.

work (Cooper, 2009). A similar phenomenon is happening not only in the economic sector but also in housing, where formal and informal housing are connected by a series of transactions, and the physical border between them is not easy to identify. However, the physical border of added and subtracted value to a space-based on its use is clear and becomes more critical, the more informal the area becomes. The quarry is clearly an undeveloped resource (amidst a burgeoning precinct), devaluing the area with the potential to do the opposite. A clear physical articulation of

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1996

1953

2006

NWABISA MADYIBI

that idea is the palisade fencing surrounding the periphery. Dunoon, unfortunately, struggles intensely with water cut-offs. New buildings on this side of the township occasionally do not receive water due to a collection of issues. Some of these matters are identified in this surface study of Dunoon’s water crisis. The following pages are deductions from a journey to the, yet to be discovered, quarry. Here we document water and how it is used and discarded in the community. Root 1: Failed infrastructure The route to the quarry from a formal neighbourhood part of Dunoon. Dunoon’s RDP neighbourhoods are typically built in a cul-de-sac urban typology. Neighbours mention pipe bursts are a common occurrence and take months before they receive any professional attention.

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A diagrammatic timeline of the materials that benefitted the community of Dunoon as it develops and further urbanises.

Map of network of quarries and ownership.

NWABISA MADYIBI

Notes: Point of departure

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Burst pipe in Dunoon cul-de-sac.

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Root 2: Failed sustainability Reused greywater is dumped into stormwater drains that lead water away from productive means NGO’s operating in community centres and community members mention their lack of knowledge on sustainable greywater reuse techniques.

Notes: Public perspective from bystander’s

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Stormwater drain use in informal settlements

NWABISA MADYIBI

Root 3: Rising water level Rising quarry water level, should there be a flood, may cause catastrophic health problems for community. General collection of miscellaneous pollution such as plastic wrappers along the palisade fencing. Vegetation (Cape Fynbos bush) increases in height nearer to quarry shore.

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Notes: Destination

NWABISA MADYIBI

Quarry water level rise in winter.

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Photo of Shacks built against quarry fence. Photo taken in Dunoon on 29.05.2017

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Towards clean water: The quarry periphery as a terraced filtration system for clean water.

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Concluding contemplations Metaphysical ponderings developed the idea that routed water may be thought of as ecological condition – such as a person’s need to be connected, to travel, to learn things outside of themselves in order to be a richer human. To become richer soil. However, the quarry embodies the state of abandonment and confusion met by the South Africans who want the land that ‘supposedly’ belongs to them. Peri-urbanity - living in on the fringe of what also defines your identity. One might wonder if the erosion of these borders that define urban, suburban, peri-urban through intangible ways of taking ground (such as knowledge expansion and accessibility through the internet and other virtual media) also talk to the erosion of culture and identity and thus a merging of humans into one soil.

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However, this seems not to be the case as soil generates value for those who own it. One may attempt to understand and rethink land ownership and resource benefit from a political perspective, in the story of this quarry - polluted stagnant water at the base of a century-old quarry into a cyclical water system – what are the value of the new way can be generated beyond smart or bio-inspired projections for our city fringes. In the intervention below, along the quarry, a series of pre-existing activities were noted along the periphery and provided for architecturally. Farmers, NGO facilitators, walkers, joggers without tracks, children without playgrounds, women without laundry water tipping points are brought together in Dunoon quarry by the water. They come to life by its usefulness and may potentially live within a forest of green in a place once barren and bare. They are a part of a cyclical life cycle, routed in the quotidian.

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NWABISA MADYIBI

Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

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THE FUNAMBULIST MAGAZINE. Retrieved 12 April 2017, from https://thefunambulist.net/philosophy/ gilles-deleuze-felix-guattaris-holey-space written by by. Mark Bonta and John Protevi. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004 Images from Newspaper articles on Dunoon protest riots: Mortlock, Monique. “Dunoon Protesters Hand Over Memorandum To City Of CT.” Ewn.co.za. N. p., 2017. Web. http://ewn.co.za/2016/04/08/Dunoonprotesters-hand-over-memorandum-to-City-of-CT Bodino, M.(2017). Architectural Research Addressing Societal Challenges (F. R. Manuel Couceiro da Costa & J. P. L. S. C. d. Costa Eds.). Netherlands: CRC Press/Balkema. . Harrison, P. (2006). On the edge of reason. Planning and urban futures in Africa. Urban Studies, 43(2): 319–335. Insights from informal interviews with Dunoon residents, local construction workers and My Dunoon facilitators. When in Dunoon - Travel Journals. (2017). Chaoticfront. blogspot.co.za. Retrieved 12April 2017, from https://chaoticfront. blogspot.co.za/2014/11/when-in-dunoon-travel-journals.html

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186 188 190 192 194 196 198 Sadie Imae

Theater of Dust Sadie Imae recently received her Master of Architecture degree from Columbia’s Graduate School of Architecture, Planning and Preservation. While there, her work focused on design that was inclusive of the “other”: ranging from forgotten dust particles to marginalized groups. Imae proposed designs with a strong tectonic language to perform as platforms of empowerment for these groups that the design industry has historically neglected. Currently she is working as a freelance designer, bringing environmentally and socially conscious designs to the worlds of healthcare and installations. In addition Imae hopes to continue her investigative work she began with Columbia’s human rights lawyers.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

SADIE IMAE

The war had been quick. We lived less the war itself than the atmosphere of war. I did not witness the battles in detail, just bombings from the air and machine-gunned fire all around.1

of settlements. Associated with these physical clouds of dust, there are a series of negative psychological impacts, further externalizing themes of turmoil and precarity.

The war being referenced is that of the 1967 ArabIsraeli war, Yusif Tannous, an Arab Christian. His recollection of the war is one defined by its acupuncture-like approach followed up by a drawn-out process of terraforming. This process is framed by a theater of war characterized by clouding dust effects. Wars are fast in the Jawlan, while the aftermath is a prolonged theatrical process, to normalize military presence and the uncertainty war presents.

This project focuses primarily on the Majdal Shams, Mount Hermon Ski Resort, and Merom Golan. Select films, photographs, and maps reflect a particular history of the cloud and how it has become an indicator of military activity and a symbol of accepted doubt. New maps and forms of representation are generated to further analyze a legacy of systematic upheaval, control, and colonization. This new analysis pushes for a new representation of soil as it is in this context: agitated, potential, and settled states.

Historically, multiple variations of violent operations are applied to soil to create space. It is fired to become a decadent floor, carved to become an ornate ceiling, or rammed to become a robust well. These methods of creation lend themselves to a world of architecture where soil scraps are the unwanted thing we know as dust. This version of soil has been designed out of architecture but left for others to manipulate. The “Theater of Dust” is an analysis of military use of soil/dust as a method of control and manipulation of space to generate unsettled ground among the occupied. Clouds of dust formed by the military conceal views while framing out others, rendering their actions ambiguous. Clouding or these acts of controlling views are a strategy of The War Machine, allowing the government to perpetuate myth alongside the military’s destruction of villages and the erection

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A History of Dust The history of the Jawlan is complex and contains layers upon layers of militarization coupled with normalization. The government’s approach to control is a tightly woven web of military presence and acts of typical life. Institutions or constructs of every day allow the military to hide in plain sight asserting power through a subtle yet jarring gaze. Meanwhile, something so unassuming as the dust has a greater implication. The Jawlan territory experienced many conflicts and disagreements leading up to the wars of 1967 and 1973, yet still many of the local Syrian’s did not expect the shift in power. Yusiaf Tannous recalled, “Before the war broke out, we did not sense that there were any Syrian preparations. A week or two earlier, we noticed that the families of soldiers and officers were packing their bags

THEATER OF DUST

Maps by Sadie Imae

and leaving the area. We thought that they were going to their hometowns for the summer.”2 While Syrian soldiers moved out to defend the Jawlan and Syrian borders, layers of the Israeli military were forming. As both sides readied themselves for war, their movement across the land generated dust becoming the first signs of war, a destabilized climate from afar. Once in position, the second wave of war indicators was from the fire of large military assault vehicles. The force of these weapons caused the earth to shutter and uplift, generating

dust around weapons and their targets. A moment in which both war machine and point of impact are tied together by clouds of dust, from afar discerning one cloud from the other, becomes difficult, fueling future ambiguities fabricated by the military. For some, these plumes of smoke and dust were the first sign of conflict, but for most, the concern was whether or not they would be able to return home. “About a week before Israel had to hand over the town, huge clouds of dust filled the air, and we began to wonder what the Israelis were up

SADIE IMAE

only a marker of war and colonization but are the metaphor of the methodological annihilation of a people as their homes are left in ruin. A fragment of the original Syrian population lives in the five remaining Syrian villages alongside Israeli settlements that continue to pop up and expand across the Jawlan. The dust of destruction transitioned to clouds of construction, as the fewer than 20 percent remaining Jawlani’s watched the ruin of their villages be turned into the foundations for Israeli settlements. For many, when returning to villages or farmland, the landscape had become unrecognizable from the violent upheaval of soil. What was familiar was morphed under a mysterious cloud, that after dissipating, revealed a changed scene as part of the theater.

Map by Sadie Imae

to. When we entered the town, we discovered they had systematically blown up almost all the buildings...”3 For many, it was large plumes of smoke and dust that signified the demise of their village. It wasn’t only bombings and gunfire that destroyed villages, but a very intentional use of heavy construction machinery that systematically dismantled the abandoned villages and farms in the wake of 1967.4 This targeted destruction was resulting in the loss of 340 villages and farms and the displacement of 130,000 native Syrian inhabitants. The clouds of dust represent not

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Part of the theater is the murky psychological veil the government has superimposed on the Jawlani people. The metaphor of the dust cloud is found in the identification of the original inhabitants, who are no longer recognized as Syrian citizens. Instead, their passports read Nationality— Undefined. Not only are villages being violently transformed in a cloud of dust, but so is a nation; their true nationality has been covered in attempts to commandeer their future. Dust Agitated Given the history of the cloud and dust, it has become a tool of concealing and framing used by the controlling government in this case. The physicality of the cloud extends past into the metaphoric. The metaphoric dust cloud

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Maps by Sadie Imae

contributes to the theater of the Jawlan, visà-vis the anxiety embedded in artifacts of the Jawlan, such as: marked off areas for industrial activities, signage indicating mined areas, and romanticized military bunkers. Among these moments and others contain objects that are associated with clouding as an act, potential, or residue. The selective use of both the physical and metaphorical cloud as a tool of theater has enabled the military to control perceptions of the Jawlan.

the marking of landmines, and suspicious activities of the government. The government has selectively demined a high point of Majdal Shams only to continue industrial activity at the site, without disclosing their work to the residents of the town.

Majdal Shams has experienced rapid changes since the war. An area that is all too familiar with war has become normalized through the presence of dust clouds arising from Syria,

At Mount Hermon, the active clouding comes in many forms, and given that it is the tallest peak in the region, the colonization of this peak is a military tactic. 1971, marks the initial

The assemblage of dust here acts as a signifier of suspicious activities, which in the past lead to the dismantling of people’s homes and the construction of Israeli settlements.

SADIE IMAE

Within this landscape of dust and clouding, the ski resort is a representation of the adjacency of military life to tourism and the everyday. The cloud starts to blur the lines of these distinctions. Dust Potential

Images courtesy of Sadie Imae

whitewashing of the site when the first ski lift was constructed, to this day the site is home to the Mount Hermon ski resort. The government uses the tallest peaks to place its military posts masked by natural and temporal cloud coverage. “Normalization relates to the ways in which Hermon’s physical properties paradoxically enabled the colonizing force to render space an attractive foreign destination and thereby shape it as an integral part of the state.”5 During the construction of the Ski Resort, dust was allowed to rise, marking the construction of a monument to the war apparatus via the western pinnacle of leisure. Once the dust settled, Mount Hermon is now home to a panopticon encased in a shell of tourism. This proud display of the site’s Europeanization allows for other portions of the site to remain ambiguous, enabling the military to perform discrete activities of surveillance.

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The cloud, as a potential, is best represented by the relentless appearance of signage marking mined fields, conveying the ubiquitous nature of a more sinister landscape. This landscape of mined areas is a constant reminder of the colonizer’s presence and readiness for war. Following 1967, the Israeli military placed a large number of landmines along the perimeter in the Jawlan, in addition to the mines left by Syrian and French forces. Today mines cover an estimated over 9,000 acres of land, parsed up into a possible 2,000 fields all varying in size, making for very unpredictable circumstances. Despite their numbers and their potential to cause severe damage, many remain unmarked or other factors contribute to the precarious nature of the fields. Precipitation and elevation changes exacerbate the uncertainty of minefields as individual landmines shift out of their marked areas due to the conditions.6 Unfortunately, these mines do not discern between civilian and military, taking the lives of 16 Syrians, 8 of which were children and seriously injuring 50 Syrians, 43 of which were children, between 1967 and 2000. For the Jawlani, especially those with children, landmines present a very real threat, “since there is no way to be certain with the shifting of soil and unmarked

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Simultaneous explosion of 350 landmines in the Golan Heights, Haaretz

SADIE IMAE

Image courtesy of Sadie Imae, showing vast minefield in the Jawlan

fields....there is a psychological burden caused by the permanent uncertainty and the safety of virtually any area.”7 In recent years there have been some mapping attempts of the landmines, but the maps lack data as the government claims it can not disclose the location of all its fields for a matter of national security. In addition to the lack of mapping, the existing maps do not express the possible shifts in soil. Historically maps are lines delineating one object from another, but they do not express the potential of points exploding out from their superimposed line. Aside from the maps, some demining operations have taken place. These operations were a product of “Danny’s Law.” It wasn’t until after an Israeli child sustained injuries from a landmine in the Jawlan that policies were established to begin demining in the Jawlan. Prior to this incident, the deaths of Syrian children went unnoticed by the government. Today, the government is now required to demine the landscape, but since the Minefield Clearance Act in 2011, the government has been slow to demine land and has prioritized specific areas.

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Some of the demined lands, like a plot at the foot of a series of turbines, allowed for the access and construction of infrastructure, while the surrounding area remains unmined, as a border, leaving the potential of detonation, the threat of violent clouding.8 Another site, The Lower Customs House, now Bet Hameches Hotel, was peppered with a landscape of mines during the wars. Today, due to the intervention of an Israeli developer, the site has been cleared, renovating the grounds into a boutique hotel. Meanwhile, the surrounding grounds remain unmined to control both land and tourism.

Image courtesy of Al-Marsad, Arab Human Rights Centre in Golan Heights

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Maps by Sadie Imae, depicting existing mapped minefields coupled with altitude and precipitation

In Majdal Shams, landmines control the land. Despite the disruptive pockets of landmines, only one field was cleared so the government could use the land for industrial activities. Landmines and other factors limit the city’s ability to expand, so the town is forced to build up. Adjacent to the site the government installed more anti-personnel landmines in 2011, despite recent UN Summits to limit and ban the use of landmines, this controversy is once again backed by claims of national security. The laying of these new mines is a result of the protest that occurred on the 15th of May, 2011. Despite the warning of landmines and the uncertainty of that landscape, protesters still ran across the

border at the Valley of Tears. No landmines were detonated.9 Some say the mines sunk down into the earth due to precipitation and soft soil, but others say it is because the mines were never there. It is moments like these that destroy the enigma of the potential cloud, so in response, the government very publicly installed more antipersonnel landmines. To this day, the potential of the cloud via minefields is everywhere in the Jawlan. The proximity of the landmines to towns, recreation, and other public places has added to the normalization of uncertainty with the constant possibility of their detonation. Land is captured

SADIE IMAE

Casts by Sadie Imae, Image of soil samples taken from minefields which have been cast in resin. These samples represent the potential of the soils upheaval. These explosive moments are disruptive of everyday life in the Jawlan, which becomes evident in the mixing of soil with everyday things such as the plastic wrapper, hair, and beads found in the cast soil samples.

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and controlled in rings of potential destruction. The history behind the possible upheaval of earth multiplies this division in the landscape. Dust Settled The settling of the cloud-like that of Mount Hermon, is very intentional, and is used to create moments of clarity and frame views of an object or out to the landscape. The natural environment is heavily manipulated to render the landscape as more permanent and solid for colonizers while unpredictable for the inhabitants. Many of these moments occur at old military bunkers, where the soil is literally anchored down by a solid mass, becoming a platform for viewing inward and outward, while surrounding land remains laden with landmines or its remnants. Land is polarized in the Jawlan, allowing for the romanticizing and normalizing of war. Adjacent to this network of bunkers runs the Golan Trail, where the intentional demining of land and rigorous marking off of trails adjacent to preserved minefields, generates a hiking trail of leisure. Along this trail, abandoned military bunkers serve as tourist destinations and markers,

a reminder of war’s legacy, and make a painful past physical in the present. This landscape normalizes military presence allowing the bunkers to remain as viewing outposts, tethered together by the Golan Trail. Merom Golan is the last of the sites. This particular case has turned a bunker that rests on top of Mount Bental into a tourist destination that includes a cafe and shop. The site romanticizes the ruin of the bunker, clearly on display for tourists, complete with signage, art, and binoculars. The intentions of the site couldn’t be more explicit. The potential of dust has been eradicated from the site to frame views to Al Quneitra. Fabricating a history of Syria that paints it in a poor light, which is conveniently and unfortunately reinforced through the use of binoculars allowing one to see the remnants of Al Quneitra and distant clouds of dust and smoke generated by the civil war in Syria. Looking out from Mount Bental, one is faced with a landscape of uncertainty, amplified by various clouds hugging the horizon. These chimeras represent a history of war, dismantling of civilian homes, and the suspicious activity of

Images courtesy of Sadie Imae. A view out from a tourist attraction Mount Bental to Al Quneitra.

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the colonizer. Despite attempts of the military to control the land through the manipulation of its very soil into a stage set, people in the Jawlan stay hopeful and manage to peer through the physical and metaphorical clouds of dust to moments of truth. In this analysis of militarized soil, scale plays a major factor as the lens focuses in and out of view. The pixel as one particle of soil or dust, in itself, is unassuming, but when multiplied and zoomed out, this amalgamation becomes a cloud, a dark possibility. Zoom out to find well-worn dirt paths traversing the Jawlan, hiking trails that appear to be an ode to an explorers paradise. Strung along are a network of bunkers anchoring the soil, while mined fields threaten upheaval of soil. In the Jawlan, soil shifts and morphs seamlessly in the landscape, masking this megalithic giant of the war apparatus.

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Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9.

Sakr Abu Fakhr, “Voices from the Golan” Journal of Palestine Studies, Vol. 29, No. 4 (University of California Press, 2000), 10 Ibid. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 7 Mori Ram, “White But Not Quite: Normalizing Colonial Conquests Through Spatial Mimicry” Antipode Vol. 46. (2013) 737 “Mines are often moved by natural conditions such as rain, snow or natural earth movements, displacing the mines and rendering safe areas dangerous. The fences are not designed to stop this, and the situation is worsened by the fact that the Golan is a mountainous area, causing mines placed on the hills to slide down-hill, out of the fenced areas” (15) Thijs Maas, “Landmines in the Occupied Golan And Israel’s obligations under International Human Rights and Humanitarian Law,” Al-Marsad, Arab Human Rights Centre in Golan Heights (2015) 15 Ibid. 18 “The mine placements in and around the villages restrict the extension of these villages to match this increase in population. Israeli settlements in the area have not been affected by the minefields, as the fields were often cleared in order to make room for such settlements.” Ibid. 17 “This whole time there were no land mines, 2017 uses found mobile phone footage and audio recordings that were made in 2011 in The Golan Heights. This stretch of land was annexed from Syria by Israel after the 1967 ceasefire and hosts ‘the shouting valley’ — a place where the topography facilitates an acoustic leak across the border. Here separated families have regularly gathered on both sides of the divide to shout across to each other. On 15th May 2011 the shouting valley was host to a different act of transgression. Protesters from all over the country gathered on the Syrian side of the border for the anniversary of the Nakba. Unlike the usual gatherings in this valley the voice was not the only thing to cross the border as 150 Palestinian protesters from Syria unexpectedly broke into Israeli territory. For the first time since 1967 the border was breached. Four protesters were later killed by Israeli soldiers yet the majority managed to exercise, even if briefly, their right to return.” Lawrence Abu Hamdan, “This Whole Time There Were No Landmines” (2017). https://vimeo.com/241859457

Photo Credits Haaretz.net. “Simultaneous explosion of 350 landmines in the Golan Heights .” 1:11, July 4, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKBF9bGmYV4.

200 202 204 206 208 210 212 Tyler Gaeth

Terra Firma Tyler Gaeth is a Master of Architecture Candidate at the University of Michigan’s Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning. He received his Bachelor of Science in Architecture from the University of Minnesota’s School of Architecture in 2018. As a designer and writer, he explores issues of sustainability and equitable practice, often engaging disciplines at the periphery of architectural discourse to inform his work. His ongoing research investigates the historical and cultural mechanisms which inform contemporary design in the littoral zone. Specifically, how these frameworks interact with our changing climatic paradigm and the lives of coastal residents directly affected by their potential conflict.

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

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My investigation of coastal reclamation and its effects on coastal development within the context of cities across the globe has explored the process—the act of constructing artificial ground along the coast—through historical and contemporary lenses, from the scale of a single project to their combined effects on a city or other municipality. There have been several insights through this process, but one which forms the foundations of this piece; in the past four centuries, colonial powers shaped nearly every locale that has been profoundly altered by coastal reclamation. The legacy of colonialism has been implicated and explored in other contexts, but my research examined its impact on the development of coastal cities. What emerged from this inquiry is the argument that follows. My findings implicate coastal reclamation as a physical extension of colonial impositions and attitudes and constitute a critical part of its spatial legacy on the coast. Reclamation was a physical embodiment of the "colonial system's logic of competition, commodification, and domination,"1 which systematically and uncompromisingly sought to impose this narcissistic hegemony on the people and landscapes which it encountered. The imposition of property ownership and other colonial policies rooted these efforts, where settlers leveraged reclamation to fortify, solidify, and ultimately conquer coastal ecology (and native communities) to enable the colonial machine. Colonizers viewed these territories as subservient, a collection of resources they could extract for the wealth and prosperity of the empire, and personal agendas. While most of these places today are independent nations,

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the legacy of imperialism is still manifest in the coastal structures, policy, and attitudes that exist today. This paper will examine the use of coastal reclamation by these powers, framing it within the broader attitudes and policies of the era, to understand how it became a spatial agent of the colonial agenda. Through the physical process of colonization and the establishment of private enterprise, colonizers reshaped coastlines into the dry and hardened territory at odds with the natural systems which persist on the coast. Today's developments formed from the acceptance of this methodology but are no longer sustainable within the contemporary climatic paradigm. With increasing severity and consequence, we witness the tragic interaction of these outdated logics with unstable natural conditions. A new coastal design methodology seems essential, one which appropriately responds to the volatile climatic future we can expect and simultaneously dismantles the spatial legacy of colonialism.2 Reclamation is by no means the sole product of this system but will be the spatial device through which we engage this conversation. Let us jump into the long history of the term to understand how it fits into the colonial puzzle outlined above. Reclamation has occurred for thousands of years, appearing in some of the earliest human encampments and later cities of the ancient world. The physical process used today is remarkably akin to that employed by these ancient cities, usually relying on the movement of fill material to near and off-shore locations

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to create new, dry land. Geography researchers Dhritiraj Sengupta, Ruishan Chen, and Michael E. Meadows define reclamation in their work on the subject: "Seaward land reclamation entails the formation of artificial land surfaces which are constructed in such a way as to extend outwards over the sea using advanced geoengineering techniques."3 This definition summarizes the common understanding of the technique, but reclamation is far from the static and inert movement of material this definition might suggest. Colonial powers employed similar methods of construction as their predecessors but did so with markedly different intentions. Where ancient civilizations primarily employed reclamation as a defensive strategy, colonial powers began to use it as an economic tool. These two motivations were indeed not exclusive of each other, as colonial settlements were also concerned with defense and ancient civilizations with growth. As colonies expanded and pushed against their coastal boundaries, however, the purpose of reclamation was leveraged twofold: improve deep-water access for the creation and expansion of ports for sea trade and to gain new land for production and industry. Together, these new initiatives fueled the colonial machine and departed from earlier motives. The conditions under which this shift towards coastal expansion developed are of critical relevance to our conversation. Imperial colonization and the attitudes and structural legacy of its conquests shaped coastal development across much of the planet, eroding the critical buffer zone between the fluid territory

of the sea and our permanent settlements. Today, these places are threatened by natural events, which only become "natural disasters" when they encounter vulnerable human infrastructures. While this is certainly nothing new, humancaused climate change and corresponding sea level rise are compounding the potential for these incidents to occur and amplifying their impact. It does not require a lengthy investigation to find examples of places, people, and even entire nations grappling with these new realities. Island nations, socioeconomically disadvantaged countries, and coastal communities across the planet are learning what it means to live in a time of rising sea levels, and amplified storm surge. Globally, the World Bank has estimated that rising seas will displace more than 140 million people before 2050.4 It is the equivalent of every U.S. resident west of the Mississippi, plus the entire New York Metropolitan Area sinking below the waves. This statistic does not consider the much greater number of people whose very way of life will be disrupted by climatic change. Even in places where migration will not be necessary, coastal communities still need to adapt to these changing conditions to avoid destruction and casualty. For designers practicing on the coast, these variables demand change in the existing conceptual paradigm. Rather than expand and conquer the fluid coastal zone as we have done for generations (the coastal-colonial methodology), contemporary projects must address the growing necessity of adaptation and retreat on the coastal front.

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It is in addressing this new paradigm that the colonial legacy in question becomes problematic. Without dismantling or adapting existing frameworks and policy, the types of structural changes necessary for this adaptation to occur become extremely difficult to achieve, if not impossible. The current coastal-urban landscape is scarred, constructed, fortified, and hardened with policies and cultural attitudes that encourage an akin response in the future. Methodology underpinned by static, engineered barriers is challenged by an innate inability to adapt to changing environmental conditions. The result of these failures is most viscerally felt by those directly affected- the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina in 2006 or backwater communities across the Eastern Seaboard in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in 2012 to name just two of countless examples. Failures in the engineered defensive structures surrounding each community revealed additional shortcomings, as the urban landscape contained within was inadequate to provide a second line of defense or protection for its residents. Entire neighborhoods and communities exist in this precarious state, utterly dependent on coastal fortification and structures designed with fixed environmental conditions in mind that are rapidly becoming ineffective. These are the structural mechanisms and preexisting conditions which challenge 21st-century designers on the coast, with little recognition for the agency of colonialism in forming the attitudes which helped to propagate them.

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Expansion, Exploitation, and Reclamation Reclamation is the tool we will use to navigate this territory and interpret its contribution to shaping contemporary coastal settlement. From an etymological and sociocultural perspective, reclamation is as much an attitude as it is a physical process. The term reclamation, meaning to take something back, has an inherent implication that ownership formerly belonged to the reclaimer. Humans have been claiming and reclaiming ownership since the development of civilization, imposing political and cultural values onto the ground they occupy. The earliest beginnings of colonization in the 1500s marked a transition in this cycle of ownership, from the conterminous expansion of the homeland to isolated territories of exploitation. Imperialists became obsessed with growing their county's (and their personal) influence and wealth above all other agendas. Colonial lands, though under the strict authority of their imperial host, were not extensions of the homeland but rather holdings used for production, resource extraction, and other exploitative agendas. The territory they occupied became one almost exclusively dedicated to the enterprise. It is under these conditions in which our modern conception of private property emerged, and the transition from feudalism to (then emergent) capitalism began in much of Europe. Property ownership, though conceptually ubiquitous today, is far from universally understood or implemented; it exists in remarkably diverse ways depending on culture and geography, if at all.

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(1) Geological Investigation Mississippi River Alluvial Valley – Harold Fisk Few drawings convey the nature of hydrological fluctuation more expressively than those by Harold Fisk. The collection of maps he produced, studying the lower course of the Mississippi River, combines decades of observation within a drawing to explain a process difficult to conceptualize in a single moment of observation.

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To illustrate the tensions created by these new systems of ownership and expansionism, we should consider the colonization of the Americas beginning half a millennium ago. While people of the First Nations and other American indigenous groups held territorial control of the land they occupied, their society did not associate that occupation with ownership as constructed in Western European society. When settlers began deploying their system of private ownership in American colonies, they leveraged this misunderstanding against native communities. Colonizers justified the forced migration and extermination of native populations in the Americas, in significant part, through the imposition of western property law and the associated conflicts of ownership, which ensued because of fundamental misunderstandings over what ownership described in each society. From their moment of arrival, westerners believed they had rights to the "New World." Under this guise, western settlers "reclaimed" the Americas from native populations, even though they had no real claim, no former associations with the ground in question. Under this system of exploitation and domination, we can infer how settlers applied this same propensity of entitlement to the world's oceans, lakes, and rivers. Not unlike the human-aspect of reclamation just discussed, to reclaim from a waterbody implies that those humans doing the reclamation had former possession of this aqueous space and are now taking it back. Considering the exploitative agendas of colonialism, we can understand how this belief materialized as water became integral

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to trade and transportation. Coastal reclamation was particularly prevalent in British colonized lands, where ports and sea trade connected the homeland to its many satellites. Much like the disregard and hostility which these colonizers applied to native populations, they treated the natural environment with equal (dis)respect. Economical and productive potential alone assigned value to the land and seas- and the people who occupied them. Water became an extension of the empire, owned but seemingly uncontrollable territory whose sole value was to facilitate trade and commerce. As colonial hegemony rapidly dominated most of our world's terrestrial space, efforts expanded to tame water- control its movement, fluctuation, and surface territory. Coastal reclamation became the mechanism to mediate the interface between terra firma and the fluid zone, entangling this struggle for control within the constructed ground. These narratives demonstrate how the benign and neutral understanding of coastal reclamation- the extension of land or terrain into and over waterignores the essential partisanship which grants the authority to do this expansion. Reclamation entails more than just the physical expansion of dry, human territory. It is the spatialization of colonial attitudes of ownership and exploitation. The extraction of resources served as the basis of this system and included the trade of humans (slaves and labor) and natural (minerals, materials, agriculture, and other) resources. To connect these resources with the central empire, a vast network of trading and merchant's vessels was

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necessary, encouraging prolific development at harbor sites. The same coastal geography, which makes these locations suited for sea fare, also restricts expansion naturally since it can only occur in three (or fewer) directions. In addition, the water's edge is often not immediately compatible with the dry and permanent development cities most often employ: whether it's the swampy lowlands which once covered lower Manhattan Island, the fluid sandbars which settlers joined into modern Mumbai, or the steep terrain of Hong Kong Island, what these geographies offered in terms of economic potential was challenged considerably by their natural variability. As technology progressed over centuries, the ability to manipulate these environments in more substantial ways grew in kind. Cities began to dredge rivers and coastlines to accommodate increasing commercial traffic and expanded port capacity to feed growing economies and global markets. Dams, dikes, and canals expanded the human-controlled territory of water, simultaneously creating the opportunity for commoditization through access and control of these key transportation routes. Once in place, these infrastructures and policies solidified their colonial origins within the deepest layers of coastal development. The City of Fables "Mumbai, it is said, stands on lands reclaimed from the Arabian Sea, as if the city had some prior claims on what lay buried underwater. In fact, the Island City occupies lands stolen from the sea." 5

The coastal-colonial situation described so far has played out across the globe. In part or whole, the effects of coastal reclamation and its embodied attitudes have impacted the development of nearly every coastal city across our planet. The local ramifications and legacy vary but share common characteristics that can be described in the context of Mumbai, whose existence, it seems accurate to claim, can be almost entirely attributed to acts of coastal reclamation. The city is one of several examined in developing the position argued here and embodies both the history and contemporary challenges which it implicates. Mumbai is one of these places where historical hydrology and geography, despite settlers' best efforts, remain untamable. The story of this struggle for control began when the Portuguese took possession of the area in the 16th century. At this time, barely any land existed at the site of the modern city. A series of seven marshy islands were in a constant cycle of submersion, draining, and baking in the tropical sun. In some of these places, excavations show that rocky outcroppings gradually became colonized by coconut palms, which "reclaimed" the first real landmass over hundreds and thousands of years of decomposition to form the earliest landmass of the islands.6 With time, people did begin to colonize the soft, soaked soil that would become Mumbai. The Kolis, as they came to be known, formed small fishing villages on the islands long before the Portuguese or British colonizers arrived in the area. While largely displaced by the explosive cosmopolitan development of the city,

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(2) View of the Breach Causeway, Bombay - British Library

a few small encampments survive in the shadow of high rise developments, along coastlines that have moved considerable distances in the past three hundred years. The real history of Bombay (as Mumbai was then known) began when the second wave of colonizers, this time of Western Europe, arrived by sea. The Portuguese landed at Bombay in 1509, and amidst the early colonial encampments, which characterize this period formed a fort and settlement, which would later be transformed into a vibrant trade capital by the British. When the British located the islands7 on the western coast of India after gaining control

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of the territory from Portugal, troops took possession in 1665. At this time, the islands of Bombay were hardly land at all; the seven amphibious islands made up less than 18 square miles of land area. The British government quickly dismissed the potential of the territory as a viable military outpost and leased the land to the East India Company for just £10 per year. The growing company, an empire of trade in the region, was already seeking to develop a hub on the western coast of India and immediately began reclamation efforts to meet this vision. The islands of Colaba, Old Woman's Island, Bombay, Mazgaon, Parel, Mahim, and Worli (referred to by their settler names) presented

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significant logistical challenges because of their disjointedness. Recognizing the commercial potential of a port in this location, the companywith support from the Crown- set out to unify the separate islands through reclamation. At this point, there was little distinction between expansion on the coast and the equally prolific reclamation of inland creeks, streams, and tidal flats on the islands. In the early 19th century, British entities expanded reclamation activities to join all seven islands and expand the available territory for production and agriculture. The company leveled hills and dumped debris into the sea to connect the landmasses. Most daunting of this unification process was the construction of a causeway between Bombay and Worli islands on the southern tip of the chain. When the tides came in each day, the sea flooded through the restriction between the two islands to fill Mumbai's lowlands with great tidal force. While settlers made earlier attempts to control the sea at this location, they were unsuccessful. In a 1685 report to the British government, the deputy governor stated it was not feasible to fill "The great gap," between the two.8 Almost a century later, settlers developed an engineering solution, and the Hornby Vellard joined the two islands with a strip of rock, sand, and debris to solidify the connection.9 By 1838, all seven islands had been permanently linked through causeways and other reclamation projects to form the city, then known as Bombay. While colonizers merged all the islands by the mid-19th century, reclamation was far from

complete in the island city. Even more technical and ambitious than the connection of the islands, subsequent projects set out to further expand the land territory of the rapidly densifying city. The scarcity of land- moreover, dry land- drove the city to expand into the sea continually. The city's dynamic hydrological position exasperated the immense challenges settlers faced in these efforts. The territory is under the influence of both oceanic tidal forces and seasonal fluctuations of the rivers and streams flowing into the estuarial bay. Mumbai lies at the collision of these powerful, fluid forces. Constructors of the modern metropolis have tried their best to erase these aqueous origins, but frequent flooding highlights their shortcomings. Flooding is a constant challenge in the city. A direct result of the extensive inland and coastal reclamation, lowland urban development, and the destruction of much of the city's original terrain for use as fill material, Mumbai is low, level, and at constant risk of flooding. The landscape which exists today, though physically unrecognizable from its historical form, remains an estuary- a place where the sea interfaces with freshwater and land in a dynamic collision. What society characterizes today as flooding events can hardly be considered unusual under these conditions. It only became a problem when settlers ignored these natural forces repeatedly throughout the construction of the city. They mistakenly characterized these forces as something which could be controlled and conquered with enough effort. Water became the enemy, shifting from anticipated soaking to a disastrous and destructive

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force needing remediation. The change was not a natural one. Beyond the physical changes to native hydrology- filling creaks, impervious urban development, and coastal reclamation projectsthe legacy of colonial domination informs the belief that the city could ever become independent of these conditions. Mumbai has always been an estuary, designed to fluctuate and flow with the tides and seasonal rains. What changed was the presence of a permanent and dry colonial settlement directly in this zone of fluid undulation, which ignored this inherent wetness. Colonizers demanded dryness, and the policy and patterns of development which exist today developed with the same attitude. Throughout the city's history, reclamation was deployed as a spatial weapon to harden aqueous boundaries and expand territory. Looking at the present-day city of Mumbai, their efforts had limited success. The landscape has been rendered incredibly fragile and susceptible to the forces it attempted to conquer. In this urban condition, residents and their lives are still controlled by seasonal flooding, which regularly submerges vast tracts of the city. For present-day Mumbai, officials must reckon with this ignored stasis. "In short, it demands the accommodation of the sea, not a war against it which continues to be fought by engineers and administrators as they carry sea walls inland in a bid to both channel monsoon runoff and keep the sea out."10 Adaptation is a loaded word for a city with a long history of resistance. Not only does it have physical implications on planning and daily life, but it requires a departure from more than 300 years of spatialized colonial ideology.

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Terra Non-Firma The same challenges which face the city of Mumbai are common across countless coastal cities. Questions of how existing infrastructures, policies, and coastal settlements can adapt in the modern climatic paradigm characterize a shift towards new modes of adaptation in their ongoing development. As colonial logics hardened and fortified littoral territory over the past centuries, the result has been an increasingly fragile, precarious coastal condition: the coastal-colonial paradox. The further settlers advanced into the fluid zone, the more complicated measures of removal, discharge, and redirection became. Infrastructures that emerged for water management- sea walls, levees, dikes, dams, channeling, dredging, piping, pumping, containment, and others- are spatial embodiments of the colonial attitudes of solidification and dryness which lead to their necessity in the first place, and demand their expansion and ongoing improvement. The management, funding, maintenance, and politics of each of these features entrenched the systems further in all levels of policy and planning. Until recently, it was easier to ignore this legacy, much less oppose it. The effects of this system tend to surface at moments when nature overcomes our efforts of defense and barrier. Coming in the form of natural disasters- hurricanes, tsunamis, and even seasonal monsoons- we are regularly reminded of the power natural systems possess even in environments purposely constructed to oppose

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(3) In the 2018 documentary “Managed Retreat,” Nathan Kensinger documents the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in three Staten Island Communities. A series of state-sponsored buyouts relocated residents from areas of the borough most vulnerable to future disasters, paying them the pre-storm value of destroyed homes with an additional percentage. One of the first examples of coastal retreat in the U.S., the process seems increasingly likely in response to future coastal conditions.

them. In each case, natural forces expose weakness in the constructed defensive system in place: a breached levee, an eroded shoreline, outdated engineering. Within this constructed fortress of cement, boulder, and soil, we have left communities vulnerable at all levels. Disasters remind us of the fragility of this entire system, which faithfully masquerades as impenetrable. As much as we can predict, engineer, and plan for nature's fury, it has a way of exceeding our expectations. The default reaction to this issue, embedded with colonial logic, is to overbuild. If we fortify our coasts beyond all reasonable expectations, then we are prepared for anything. Right?

Well, it seems the answer is not quite as simple as it once was. The coastal paradigm which colonial cities formed within- one of a relatively stable climate, predictable weather patterns, and stable sea levels- is no longer viable. Climate change and global sea-level rise, coupled with the substantial hydrological changes we have triggered through our pursuit of developing and extracting resources, have removed any sense of stability from these unpredictable events. There are already changes in the magnitude, frequency, and locality of traumatic coastal events, and we have a limited ability to accurately predict what these conditions will be in future years- particularly looking ahead the decades and centuries which

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decisions made today will underpin. Another option exists, which is where this piece will conclude. If we accept the reality that fortification and defense- the dry status quo- are not attainable in our climatic future, we must construct a new coastal identity and all the mechanisms which frame it within our physical world. The move towards a new coastal paradigm is incubating in some contexts, where citizens and officials have begun addressing the attitudes and policies which yielded their vulnerable communities. Though there is exciting potential for success with these changes, other communities will have little choice but to retreat from their present coastal boundaries. No amount of adaptation will spare the most vulnerable, lowestlying communities from inevitable submersion or instability even under the conservative predictions of our coastal future. For the first time, and likely within the next generation, we will witness the erasure of entire nations because of our collective actions. Climate migration seems likely to emerge as a critical challenge for global society- particularly for the millions displaced in the process. We will leave things here, at this moment of deep uncertainty. Our coastal future is simultaneously undecided and inevitable, dependent on the actions of nations and localities to address their colonial past and adapt- or retreat- for survival.

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Endnotes 1. 2.

Harsha Walia, p. 255 "Undoing Border Colonialism." As a settler writing about the legacy of colonial influence at the coast, I must address the idea of decolonization in the context of this work. This piece is not an act of or metaphor for decolonization. As Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang articulate in their seminal work on the subject, Decolonization is not a Metaphor, academics too often hijack the term, using it for their agendas while mistakenly believing they are contributing to decolonizing efforts. When the beliefs, values, and lives of indigenous communities are referenced later in this piece, I do so in full recognition that I am neither an expert nor authorized to speak on their behalf. I base descriptions on the information and resources availablemany of which are written from settler perspectives- and should be considered with that in mind.

I do not include this disclaimer to excuse myself from responsibility, but to acknowledge that decolonization is not within the scope of this piece, nor an area I am particularly qualified to ascertain in any context. I wrote this piece from my home in central Michigan, on the occupied lands of the Anishinabek and Meswaki Nations, among other stakeholders. Indeed, it would seem quite preposterous to articulate an argument that implicates colonial power relationships without recognizing my position within their resulting physical landscape. With all this said, I believe the move away from colonial ideologies, which I will attempt to describe, at a minimum, is more aligned with an indigenous perspective. Much like the broader occupation, colonization, and settler expansion in the Americas from the 15th century onward, coastal reclamation has been used historically as a tool to dominate and control the coastal environment, disenfranchising native societies in the process. 3. Sengupta, Dhritiraj & Chen, Ruishan & Meadows, Michael. (2017). Building beyond land: An overview of coastal land reclamation in 16 global megacities. Applied Geography. 90.10.1016/j.apgeog.2017.12.015. 4. World Bank Group, Climate Change Could Force Over 140 Million to Migrate Within Countries by 2050: World Bank Report. March 18, 2018. https://www.worldbank.org/en/news/press-release/2018/03/19/ climate-change-could-force-over-140-million-to-migrate-within-countries-by-2050-world-bank-report 5. Gyan Prakash, Mumbai Fables. Pg. 27 6. Tindall, Gillian. City of Gold. London: Temple Smith, 1982. Pg. 42 7. There was initial confusion around the location of the islands. Initially, officials thought they were somewhere off the coast of Brazil, later learning the real locale and deploying crews to assess and report on the state of the new possession. 8. Perur, Srinath. “Story of Cities #11: The Reclamation of Mumbai – from the Sea, and Its People?” The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, March 30, 2016. https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2016/ mar/30/story-cities-11-reclamation-mumbai-bombay-megacity-population-density-flood-risk. 9. The people of Mumbai share extensive mythology around water and the deities which influence its movement. One such mythology, described in Prakash’s book on the city, connects directly with the causeway construction. The story describes a meeting between the chief engineer of the project and two deities of the bay. They instructed the engineer to extract submerged idols from the rubble of the most recent, failed attempt and to then construct a permanent shrine on nearby land to house the objects. After this act of devotion, the next attempt was successful. The causeway withstood the incoming tide and perhaps preserved just a bit of Mumbai's spirit within the fortified rubble strip of the causeway. 10. Anuradha Mathur, Soak: Mumbai In an Estuary. Pg. 5 Image 1- Fisk, Harold. “Geological Investigation Mississippi River Alluvial Valley.” Geological Investigation Mississippi River Alluvial Valley. Vicksburg, MS: Army Corps of Engineers, 1944. http://www. radicalcartography.net/index.html?fisk. Image 2- British Library. View of the Breach Causeway, Bombay. 1791. Engraving. Alamy Stock Photos. Alamy Photo Link Image 3- Kensinger, Nathan, Director. Still Image from Managed Retreat, 2018. https://nathankensinger.com/ managed retreat/.

214 216 218 220 222 224 Zbigniew Oksiuta

New Soil Zbigniew Oksiuta is an architect, artist and researcher experimenting with the possibility of designing biological structures. He holds a Master of Architecture from The Warsaw University of Technology, Poland. Oksiuta concentrates on reducing his research of space to the very necessary minimum: to the physiological existence based primarily upon the verifiable physical and chemical parameters putting aside historical, social, urbanistic and aesthetic factors. His projects examine new wet technologies and biological materials which enable the development of new kind of biological objects in the biosphere and in space. Work of Zbigniew Oksiuta has been exhibited at many prominent venues worldwide including the Venice Biennial 2004; the ArchiLab d’Orleans 2004; Ars Electronica Linz 2007; Center for Contemporary Art Warsaw 2007; FACT Foundation for Arts and Creative Technology Liverpool 2008; Casino Luxembourg 2009, Kapelica Gellery, Ljubljana, Slovenia 2010; Science Gallery, Dublin 2011, Arsenal Gallery Białystok, Poland 2018, Broad Art Museum Lansing, Michigan 2018, Centre for Contemporary Art Laznia 2, Gdańsk, Poland 2019. Zbigniew Oksiuta has lectured and presented his ideas at a number of universities, art and scientific institutions including: National Gallery Warsaw; Slade School of Art London; Architectural Association London; Pratt Institute New York; Faculty of Architecture Landscape and Design UofT Toronto; Southern California Institute of Architecture Los Angeles; Columbia University New York; The School of the Art Institute of Chicago; Royal College of Art, London; MS2 Art Museum, Lodz, Poland, ESARQ School of Architecture UIC Barcelona, Spain. Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

ZBIGNIEW OKSIUTA

For millions of years, all biological processes of evolution took place in-vivo. Soil is a thin membrane covering the lithosphere was the life-giving foundation of these processes. Soil is the mother from which everything arises and to which everything returns. Pedosphere, Earth, black humus, membrane which encapsulated our Planet is full of life. Gleba, Soil, and Edaphon - the entire organic substances, plants, animals, and microorganisms across the Planet have an average thickness of about 40 cm. “Every gram of soil contains tens of thousands of species—up to 100 terabytes of genetic data. Those critters sequester carbon, fertilize plants, decompose organic material, and do a lot of other work we barely understand”. (1) Less biological phenomena are equal to its immense complexity and desirability of the events that take place on the soil surface and its interior with a vast number of microorganisms such as bacteria, fungi, worms, and insects. They do the dirty work by breaking down dead or decaying organisms, plants, and animals into substances absorbed for higher plants. As invisible decomposers, they are the closing circle of life, consisting of producers and consumers. We live in the cemetery of evolution. It is called Pedosphere, and is a thin layer of soil that allows putrefaction. For millions of years, countless organisms after death have been transformed and included again in the life cycle. It is indispensable to maintain the organic material cycles in the Pedosphere and, through

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bioturbation, influence the extent of the interactions between the litho-, hydro-, and atmospheric parts of the soil. The lithosphere is the main source of building materials. It creates a very special connection between soil and architecture. For thousands of years, stone, clay, sand, and turf has been used for the construction of human dwellings. Mankind has developed countless techniques, which enable the use of these materials to create buildings. Their main characteristic is that they are dead parts of the lithosphere. Bricks, concrete, clay, are originally organic but are used in buildings as burned and biologically sterile and not active matter. Soil, humus is a conglomerate of all states of matter: litho-, hydro-, and atmosphere. In addition, it contains the remains of rotten organisms. Humus is a special kind of spongy jungle, and its biological efficiency depends on purification processes. Regular loosening, fertilizing, and watering is necessary treatments. Encapsulation Encapsulation is a universal creative act, which enables the formation of a new system. For any system to exist, it must be separated from the surrounding environment. This law applies to all systems: biological, spatial, social, economic. The act of separation, as such, constitutes a system and allows it to function. In the selected areas, even opposing processes can occur.

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(1) Spatium Gelatum, Form 090704, 2004.

An immanent part of the system is an edge or a boundary, which physically, spatially, or organizationally separates it from the remainder. In biological systems, the membrane allows that the living cell, the basic unit of life, can exist. In the spatial system, it is a wall of a building. In social, economic, political systems, it is a language, a status, or a right.

its own components, and that is special for a boundary; on the other hand, a boundary is essential for the operation of the network of transformations…”The most striking feature of an autopoietic system is that it pulls itself up by its own bootstraps and becomes distinct from the environment through its own dynamics in such a way that both things are inseparable. 2

“Living beings are characterized in that; literally they are continually self-producing”…1 The network of dynamic transformations produce

It may seem strange to call the soil layer as a membrane. The soil covering the lithosphere is not an independent plasmatic membrane. It is

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(2) Form 090704 after several spatial invaginations and deformations, 2006.

rather a thin layer resting at its earthly rock. Its structural support is the lithosphere. But the soil meets all the conditions of a dynamic biological membrane. It is a special type of matter and a multiphase polymeric mixture of solid, liquid, and gaseous materials. The combinations of these determine the soil’s properties - its texture, structure, and porosity. For creatures living in its interior, there is a three-dimensional jungle with life-giving lakes, rocky hills, muddy depths, and aerial caves. New Soil

of “soil” arose. It has been developed in a biological laboratory. It was first used by the German scientist Walter Hesse, a well-known microbiologist who worked in the famous laboratory of Robert Koch. In-vitro techniques for growing microorganisms have only just emerged. So far, gelatine, which is a polymer of animal origin, and potato slices have been used in the laboratory tests. However, gelatine, like potato slices, was not an optimal medium for bacterial growth because it did not remain solid at 37°C, the ideal temperature for the growth of most human pathogens.

At the end of the 19th century, another kind

Inspired by his wife, Fanny Hesse, who used

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NEW SOIL

(3) The Cosmic Garden Project, 2007.

agar for her marmalade, he began using agar as a medium for culturing microorganisms. This polysaccharide remains solid at 37°C, it is not degraded by most bacteria, and results in a transparent medium. At the same time, another German scientist, Richard Petri, invented the standard culture dish and thus created the technical basis for the development of modern microbiology. Since then, transparent agar plates in Petri dishes remain a standard tool in modern microbiology. Agar is a polysaccharide derived from red seaweeds and proved to be a superior gelling agent. The Petri dish is partially filled with

warm liquid agar along with a particular mix of nutrients, salts, and amino acids and antibiotics. After the agar solidifies, the dish is ready to receive a microbe-laden sample as a transparent, stable substance agar plate allows control and observation of the growth of living organisms in laboratory conditions. The Form as a Process. The Dynamics of Materials. “In the discipline of art history, ‘material’ is a neglected category. Following a long tradition of preferring ‘form’ over ‘matter,’ scholarly analysis usually takes for granted the role of material in the

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(4) Spatium Gelatum, Form 191202, 2002.

visual arts. Thus, ‘material’ is usually understood as a medium, a vehicle for form, which serves to elevate it into the lofty realm of art” 3 Folding is a biological mechanism that allows the geometric transforming of a flat surface into a three-dimensional shape of the most efficient form. The theory of elasticity, formulated within the framework of physical chemistry, describes the molecular processes that take place in biological polymers during their transition from liquid, through the gel to solid-state. During the setting of a form, planes and membranes change their shapes and deform in a specific drama dictated by “bending energy.” As it dries, a slice of bread always bends in the same way.

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It turns into a double-curved, self-supporting crust (a hyperbolic paraboloid) displaying a mathematically determined geometry and considerable durability. The intensity of the bending energy and the speed of the changes depends on the gelling force of the material, its mass, viscosity, and water content. Chaotic curves and fractal deformations are the effects of precise biological self-organisation processes combining the physical and chemical principles of order and beauty in the animated world. Tim Ingold talked about this in his “Materials against materiality,” about “… ontology that assigns primacy to the processes of formation as against their final products, and

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(5) Creating agar membrane in bioreactor 2004.

to the flows and transformations of materials as against states of matter. Form, to recall Klee’s words, is death; form-giving is life.” 4 New building material Increasing interest in materiality draws attention to the nature of matter and shows that matter itself is full of creative energy and capable of incredible self-organizing solutions. This interest weakens the position of the human as the great creator who, for now, transforms the meaning of matter and, with support of the immense amount of energy, “elevates it into the lofty realm of art.”

The New Soil Project envisages the development of a new material, which would be a modern soil. It would be a biologically active substance that allows breeding and cultivation in-vitro of living organisms and, at the same time, could be used as building materials. Based on experience in biological research and the ©Breeding Spaces Project, it provides the use of biological polymer for this purpose. The aim is to develop a universal gel with specific structural properties that would enable the construction of threedimensional stable objects, and at the same time, could be biologically active for cultivating of living organisms.

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(6) Uncontrolled Biological Growth.

The material that made it possible to overcome earthly gravity and changed our perceptions of form and scale is concrete. This is very old material, but it showed its potential during the Industrial Revolution.

artistic expression. A hybrid made of cement water sand and mineral aggregates, concrete- or liquid stone-possesses no intrinsic form, instead takes on the characteristics imposed formwork and by the designer’s imagination.” 5

“Produced at an estimated rate of five billion cubic yards per year, concrete is the second most widely consumed substance on Earth, after water. Long took for granted as the stuff of aqueducts, and power plants, pavement, and parking garages, concrete is the new building material of choice for cutting edge architects and engineers who value not only its versatility and strength but also its unlimited potential for

Imagine a substance that can be transparent or has different colors, tastes, and flavors and is a field for farming. A universal material is sought, a kind of new biological concrete.

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I’m an architect. I’m the breeder. The discoveries that are occurring before our eyes reveal the unity of biological and digital

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(7) Flax callus cultures (Linum L).

languages and allows us to foresee unimaginable possibilities. We are already walking “in the digital age of biology in which the once distinct domains of computer codes and those that program life is beginning to merge, where new synergies are emerging that will drive evolution in radical directions.” 6 The combination of in vitro laboratory technologies with the in-silico potential of a computer will enable the emergence of new farming, farming, and building methods on previously unknown scales. Research and their results, which will appear in laboratories, will not only be implemented in the natural environment

but will itself become a new environment. I depict biological-digital mega-nature in which agriculture, breeding, and production of materials combine into one. The material will cease to be the means to the aim of creating the structure, but will actively and independently create itself. We are the dominant kind on this Planet. We have subjugated all other beings. All beings are victims of our demand. I believe that in-vitro technologies change our greed. On the New Soil, we will be growing clean meat and in-vitro materials that have never been known before.

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Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

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The Atlas of Dirt: Stalking the Planet’s DNA, by Jonathon Keats. Humberto R. Maturana & Francisco J. Varela. The Tree of Knowledge. The Biological Roots of Human Understanding. 1987, page 47. Materialaesthetik. Quellentexte zu Kunst, Design und Architektur, edited by Dietmar Ruebel, Monika Wagner and Vera Wolff, Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 2005. https://www.wiss.ethz.ch/uploads/tx_ jhpublications/material_matterial_rez_materialästhetik_06.pdf. Tim Ingold “The textility of making.” Cambridge Journal of Economics 2010, 34, 91–102 doi:10.1093/ cje/bep042. From http://cje.oxfordjournals.org/ at University of California, San Diego on May 15, 2014. On the cover of “Liquid Stone. New Architecture in Concrete” by Jean-Louise Cohen and G. Martin Moeller, editors. Life at the speed of light. From the Double Helix to the Dawn of Digital Life, Craig Venter, 2013.

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Image Credits Image 1 Spatium Gelatum, Form 090704, 2004 Biological Habitat for La Biennale di Venezia, 9. International Architecture Exhibition, 200 Diameter: 2.5 m, thickness of the sphere: 0.3 – 1.0 cm, material: gelatine 270° Bloom, colour, taste, smell: neutral Physical properties: viscosity 31.8 mP, transparency 93. %, conductivity 2 8 uS Chemical properties: pH 5.60, ash contents ≤ 0.5%, water content before drying 70%, metals ≤ 0 ppm Bacteriological properties: aerobic germs ≤ 1000/g Made by NWT-Nahrungsmittelwerke Twist GmbH, Twist, Germany Technical cooperation: Wolf-Peter Walter, Econtis, Emmen, the Netherlands Photo: Bernhard Jacobs, Meppen, Germany Image 2 Form 090704 after several spatial invaginations and deformations, Twist, Germany 2006 Photo H.W. Acquistapace, Meppen, Germany Image 3

The Cosmic Garden Project, 2007 A 3D clinostat (Random Positioning Machine) a device for simulating microgravity and studying the sensitivity of plants to the impact of gravity (geotropism). Spherical bioreactor diameter: 30 cm, membrane 5% agar with plant cultures inside. Exhibition “Breeding Spaces”, Centre for Contemporary Art, Zamek Ujazdowski, Warsaw, Poland, 2007 Photo Nick Kozak, Toronto, Canada

Image 4

Spatium Gelatum, Form 191202, 2002 Form as a process Originally flat form after a number of deformations Material gelatine 350 Bloom, colour Ponceau 4R E124 Photo Andrzej Majorowski, Salzburg, Austria

Image 5 Creating agar membrane in bioreactor 2004 Preparation of a polymer (agar)

for

growing

Vaucheria

sessilis

algae.

In cooperation with Dr. Björn Podola, Botanical Institute, University of Cologne, Gemany

Image 6 Uncontrolled Biological Growth. A part of a sterile plant callus culture on agar medium showing white embryogenic structures, pale leaves and transparent root tips. Photo Courtesy by Maret Linda Kalda, Max-Planck-Institute for Plant Breeding Research, Cologne, Germany 2002 Image 7

Flax callus cultures (Linum L) Study of changes directions of gravity on the growth of flax callus using a robotic arm. In cooperation with the Faculty of Biology of the University of Bialystok, Poland Exhibition Arsenal Gallery Bialystok, Poland 2018 Foto Arsenal Gallery Bialystok

© 2020 Zbigniew Oksiuta. All rights reserved.

Dan Pitera, FAIA

Dean, Detroit Mercy School of Architecture

UDM SACD NEWS

DINOSAURS AND DODO BIRDS – IS THIS THE FATE OF ARCHITECTURE?

Image Credit: Sarah Gautraud

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Dinosaurs and Dodo Birds – Is this the Fate of Architecture? Dean Dan Pitera, FAIA

Underpinnings 24 March 2020 Sheltered at home… I sit down at my make-shift desk in the basement—a 4-foot piece of recycled countertop sitting on file boxes for legs. I am dressed as if I was still going to leave the house for work. I am trying not to lose the rituals of the day-to-day. I have spent countless hours on video conference calls over the last couple of weeks. I am laughing to myself, because it seems like I am always analyzing the composition of the backgrounds of everyone’s video. A beach scene… A bookshelf… A blurred background… Two-story white contemporary sculptural forms… A bookshelf… A fireplace… Another bookshelf… There are a lot of bookshelves and I have noticed that many of them no longer contain books. But enough of that, it is my first time to write the SACD news that begins every Dichotomy. I have a clear vision of what I will explore in this writing—and I do use the act of writing to explore ideas. The SACD News for today, academic year 2019-2020 is about our planning for tomorrow. This is the first year for both Noah Resnick and I as Associate Dean and Dean respectively. We have long histories at our School of Architecture, which bring an excitement in both of us to move into the future. What is the future of architecture and community development as disciplines and how does our School educate and nurture students to be a part

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Dean Dan Pitera, FAIA

of this future landscape? However, as I now begin to write, I receive a text message and learn that a colleague of mine, a beloved community leader died from a virus that few people took seriously when we first heard of it a couple of months ago, including me. As I mentioned, I was confident on the focus of this short essay, and perhaps I still will write it. But I feel compelled to write about the work we do and will do as educators to prepare the soil that nurtures the next generation of architects and community developers to become the next beloved community leaders, and connect this focus to the present situation of this microscopic virus that is meaningfully disrupting the way we understand the world around us. As I write, this situation is happening in real time for

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all of us with no end in sight, or perhaps more appropriately, the end keeps getting postponed to a later date. I use this thought as an opportunity for me to pause and postpone from my writing. 27 March 2020 It is now a few of days later…Still dressing as if I am going to leaving the house for work. I am still committed to write about what we are doing today and tomorrow to prepare our students for the future. But it is hard to stay solely focused on writing about the future when so many of our students are genuinely worried if they will make it to the end of this winter semester 2020? I have received countless emails and have spoken to many students afraid of what is to follow. This health crisis has stolen from them educational and social activities and what may be for some students, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. Graduate students, who have worked tirelessly on their thesis, will have to present their work virtually. Thesis awards and other graduation awards will be announced in a virtual ceremony on a dais called Zoom that many students and faculty did not know how to use two months ago. Graduation has been ambiguously postponed. Students have had their coop internships canceled. The Volterra program was canceled. The students studying in Warsaw had to pack, say their goodbyes and return home in less than 24 hours. Their world and the worlds of many people have turned upside down. Beyond the academic perspective, every day, more and more people are asked to shelter-at-home. But, home is not necessarily a safe space for everyone. The space of the home may be a refuge for some

people, but it can be a prison for others and perhaps even harmful to some. I also wonder about the contingency plans for the folks who do not have a home to shelter in. This short essay will not attempt to solve these issues. I am merely setting the context as a way to put into perspective the issues we as educators, architects, and community developers need to identify as things which directly shape and influence the work we do and decisions we make. The spaces we design provide many, many opportunities for meaningful interactions between people. But not always are these interactions safe and nurturing. Preparing the Soil I put a challenge out to the students today… I would like to remind everyone and to emphasize that there is real stress and pressures created by shifting work in the way we all have been forced to do in such a short period of time. On top of this situation, we are now entering the last 2 weeks of studio, which has its natural stressors already built in to them. First, let me assure you, the faculty, Noah and I are here, if you need to chat. Second, here is a challenge for all of you... I truly dislike the term “social distancing.” Just because we have been forced to be physically distant, does not mean that we have to be socially distant. Try to be creative. Do a video call with each other while you are working… Virtual tag team… Digital scavenger hunt… Live stream one of you playing the guitar or other instrument. You do this late at night when you are physically in studio. (You know who you are.) Let’s do it virtually now. (If you do a mini concert, please let me know.) This might make things a

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little more interesting, tolerable and even social. I oscillate daily between the critical day-to-day realities and the need to envision ways to nurture the soil to move us into the future. In fact, I keep wondering if we are living the future now. Some students have asked me if this is the new normal. At risk of sounding apocalyptic, living and working through this current uncharted pandemic is the very thing that is preparing us for the way things may be. We are often asked by architects, by parents, by alumni, the list goes on: Are your students and graduates practice ready? These two words can be translated to: Do your students and graduates have the skills needed to be in an office? Our School firmly submits that the education of an architect and community developer must hover between both skill-based learning and educating critical thought leaders. We have to be careful not to push the pendulum too much to one side. Primarily focusing a curriculum on learning skills, sets up the student and graduate to be out of date or obsolete in the near future. Though finding a job is obviously important, universities should not be seen as institutions that merely feed the job market. Universities are in the position to educate students and at the same time, help tackle some of the world’s most difficult issues and problems, as opposed to avoiding them or developing systems to obscure them. It is very clear that if the problems are tough and they have been around for a while, then the answers will be tougher. In other words, the easy answers have most likely already been tested. Therefore, I respond by saying to those who ask about being

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ready for practice: We are committed to educating future architects and community developers that are ready to adapt to and lead in a dynamically changing practice. With this in mind, I would like to define the word practice as to act in the world in a meaningful way. Our faculty and administration have modeled beautifully to the students what it means to adapt and lead in this real-time environment that is literally changing day-to-day in an attempt to get the virus under control. The creative moves and decisions designed by our faculty preempted the moves and decisions made by the University at large. This current situation has made very visible to our students that we design more than things. Design can result in thoughtful systems, meaningful experiences, effective processes, digital reviews, virtual happy hours and town halls with people spread across the country. This realization then makes me think: Is practice ready for our graduates and students? Climate change… Discrimination (for any reason)… A viral pandemic that places the world on hold… These situations ignore property lines, building codes, local and national political boundaries. These situations are what our students are being prepared for by our faculty and community partners. But to many new students or people in general, these things may seem ambiguous and have little or nothing to do with the art of building. I would suggest that on the contrary, they have everything to do with how our discipline will change or not change, will grow or not grow. Yet, architects are still mostly taught to practice as a client-based profession.

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Yes, it is true and I do not deny that at present, an architect’s funding primarily comes from the contractual agreement between the client and architect. I do not see that circumstance changing anytime soon. However, we as a faculty submit that architects’ and community developers’ ethical responsibility is to a world that does not see boundaries between properties, neighborhoods, cities and towns, states and nations. The implications of an architect’s and a community developer’s work extend far beyond the physical limits of any property lines. They are artificial lines in the sand or lines in the soil… Fossil or Radical Evolution It is inherent that the buildings and spaces we design are in some way connected to the ground. But when something is buried in the soil without light and air, fossils are created that lose connection with current times or future opportunities. If architects bury their heads in the soil and practice with only minor changes with regard to embracing climate change, social justice, community health (again the list can go on), I am afraid the built environment professions risk becoming as extinct or at least as worthless as the dinosaur or the dodo bird. At this juncture in writing, in my basement, I do not want to sound solely critical of everything undertaken by architects and other built environment leaders. I do recognize that there has been strong commitment and work produced. However, it is clear through the reports developed by the United Nations’ body, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, that the work we have

done is far from adequate. I suggest there needs to be a radical evolution in how we work and how we think about how we work. Education must take a stronger proactive role in this nottoo-distant-future. As stated earlier, universities are in the unique position to tackle some of the world’s most difficult issues and problems... and like many of us, sitting here sheltered-at-home at my make-shift desk, I am keenly aware that climate change is only one of the many issues we need to creatively tackle. I would like to be clear here that when I use the terms architecture, community development and urbanism, I am referring to them as disciplines of thought, not just a collection of things or things that shelter us. Therefore, perhaps the future of architecture and community development should be centered on more than the things people see, more than visually pleasing buildings and spaces. This means, as we think about the future as a School consisting of faculty, students and staff, I ask us to be prepared to answer three general questions: 1. Who is taught? 2. What is being taught?–and– 3. How is it being taught? Who… We have a mosaic of communities that make up our cities and towns. We must have a mosaic of architects and community developers to create equitable, ecological and inspiring work with them. Unfortunately, as of the year 2020, this relationship does not exist. For example, 2% of all licensed architects are African American. Only .3% are African American females. In our colleges and universities, people of color make up less than 20% of the faculty who teach architecture

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students. Only 5% of architecture faculty across the United States are African American. If we are a School that truly wishes to celebrate and not ignore the differences people bring with them... If we believe that people with the same backgrounds, same heritage and/or same cultural understanding working on an issue, will develop results, which rarely do more than validate old methods... in other words, like minds seldom develop new ways of thinking… Then our future should rely on leading in our profession in a way that will change these statistics. What is implied here is greater than having a more diverse student body—although this is obviously important as well. I suggest that the strategies, which should be explored as we move forward must focus on what happens to our graduates after leaving school and how do we nurture pre-college age students even if they are not intending to apply to the University of Detroit Mercy. Strategies will also need to investigate methods to provide creative opportunities for non-white architectural professionals to become connected to the academy as a way to assist in broadening their experience. These prior statements should be understood as examples of strategies for how we will move forward versus being exhaustive in their strategic approach. What… I have suggested and written in several instances that there are three clear points that distinguish the Detroit Mercy School of Architecture’s faculty, students and leadership. First, we have the long tradition of critically engaging the opportunities Detroit has to offer. We do not see

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Detroit as a deficit but as a beloved asset. Our University and the School of Architecture are not merely on a campus in Detroit. Detroit is our campus. Could we be better at engaging the life of our citywide campus? Certainly. But, the point here is Detroit Mercy School of Architecture was all about Detroit way before Detroit was cool. Secondly, the School of Architecture has also had the tradition of understanding the profession as encompassing both the academy and practice. One does not feed the other. Instead, they learn from each other—education inside and outside of the classroom, where education includes learning by doing. Lastly, the School of Architecture’s heritage is grounded in understanding that each student must be a citizen of the world and not merely of Detroit, Michigan, Midwest or the USA. These three points listed in the prior paragraph have shaped our School to be consistently focused on justice and equity in our built environment. I feel strongly that this realization of justice and equity in the built environment must continue to be our future, but we must also amplify it in a dramatic way. However, a dramatic amplification is not enough either. It must be directed in a way that addresses the pressing issues that were already mentioned earlier in this piece: climate change and the built environment; discrimination and the built environment; community health and the built environment. How… I have mentioned that Detroit is our campus— our Native Soil… It is not a laboratory. It is not

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a tabula rasa. It is common to hear people in the academy suggest that schools of architecture should work in the community. With this in mind, I need to be clear about what I mean about Detroit is our campus. Over the last decade, Detroit has been in the news in many ways— the vacant city, the bankrupt city, the reimagined city, the comeback city, the gentrifying city. This has attracted many researchers, students and onlookers. Many have forgotten that 700,000 people still live in the city. Friction has developed. Detroit residents are weary of (1) semester-long projects where university students, either local or from around the world, are at most, temporarily engaged, and (2) studies by research institutes. They are also weary of being the object of all of these investigations, research, design build projects and good intentions that do more to serve the researcher’s and/or the university’s needs and uphold their perspectives than the community’s perspectives. In Detroit, I have heard neighborhood residents use the phrase “lab rats” countless times when referring to the methods and means many universities use when working in the city. It is important for us to not invite ourselves or impose our vision on others. Relationships are and will be developed where our school, students and/or faculty are invited into a community. When our students are working with community, they learn and will learn to ask questions such as: Who is left out of the decision-making process? Where is their voice in this process? Although, given these types of questions, it can be common to hear students say that they are giving this person or this

Design Ecoystem Diagram

marginalized group a voice. Everyone has a voice. It is our power structure and social construction that allow some voices to speak louder than others—in some cases much louder than others. A student of architecture should learn to establish processes to “amplify the diminished voice.” More specifically with respect to the built environment, the student should learn to bring this diminished voice into an equitable dialogue with previously more dominant voices. This form of community design engages the people who are often marginalized or underrepresented, and bridges the gaps between people rather than further separating them. By amplifying diminished voices, other voices are not excluded; they are simply not the only ones heard. One way this can occur is by teaching in a way that illustrates that everyone brings with them an expertise. To use the analogy again, like tiles in a mosaic, each person in a community influences

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An overhead view of my make-shift desk

and connects with other people to create a bigger picture of the community. Each person still retains their individual identity while building larger community impact. They (students, faculty, residents, children, business owners, etc.) bring with them their own individual expertise that can enrich and connect to other people’s expertise creating a more complete strategic system of thinking. Lastly, our faculty is young and truly dynamic. But we lack the racial and ethnic variety that we feel is necessary, or we risk not inspiring the students who are non-white. I can affirm that the faculty is committed to work on creative new ways to develop and nurture a racially and ethnically varied faculty to effectively bring a variety of minds to the who and what described previously.

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Similar to what was mentioned at the end of the Who… section, the prior statements in all three sections, Who…, What…, How…, should be understood as examples of approaches we will follow as we move forward versus being exhaustive in their strategic approach. Concluding Thoughts Earlier in this piece I wrote: If we are a School that truly wishes to celebrate and not ignore the differences people bring with them… If we believe that people with the same backgrounds, same heritage and/or same cultural understanding working on an issue, will develop results, which rarely do more than validate old methods... in other words, like minds seldom develop new ways of thinking… Then our future must rely on leading in a way that will change these statistics. With this restated, I submit

UDM SOA NEWS

that the core of what guides us and drive us at the Detroit Mercy School of Architecture should be rooted in Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI). Before the School of Architecture initiates another strategic plan, we will define and embrace an understanding of DEI. This will then become the foundation for the School’s strategic framework for decision-making versus becoming something that is added to an existing plan. I have sat many times over many days at the make-shift desk writing my first installment of the SACD News for Dichotomy. Often, I have looked up through the basement window surrounded by soil and at the same time, I see the sky. Cloudy. Gray. Sunny. Ground meets Sky. They are connected. It reminds me that I have consistently strived to be grounded in the critical realities of the day-to-day, while connecting them to how we should move toward an inspiring future. When I view the ecology of the built environment professions today, I see two connected and glaring inconsistencies. First, there are many architects working for the few people at the top of the economic pyramid and only a few working for the many people at the bottom. Second, the people included in the design process typically represent a small fraction of who will be affected by the final built product. Working to counter these two inconsistencies has a long tradition in our School’s pedagogical decision-making. We strive toward a cultural understanding that well-designed spaces are not just for some people, they are for all people. Thoughtful and inspiring places should not be understood as superficial things. They are

an essential human need. Inspiring places can nurture and develop the people who engage them. For example, most, if not all people would say that a young child will grow and learn better in a well-designed school versus an unmaintained, poorly designed school. This is true whether the surroundings are a home, school, homeless center, or other architectural, urban, or landscaped space. With this in mind, I would suggest that design is really an issue of social justice, which our School defines as the distribution of both advantages and disadvantages across the full cross-section of society. When this is discussed with other professionals, they often understand this viewpoint as an attempt to further define an alternative practice that runs counter to how architects typically work. However, instead of being alternative, I propose that we are working to dramatically alter how architects practice or will practice in the future. Our School of Architecture interrogates and crafts the methods used to meaningfully incorporate community-driven, critical practice throughout the profession. As an institution, our School will consistently remind ourselves of what we do and why we do it! We do not just teach students to be a part of static or unchanging professions. Our disciplines are dynamic and currently in the process of embracing dramatic change. Universities must be a part of leading that change. Our SACD News is that we are defining the future of our profession by critically thinking about who is in it and how we work to bring well-designed spaces to all people and what those spaces do to confront the difficult issues of our time.